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      Ramona | Project Gutenberg
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2802 ***</div>
    <h1>
      RAMONA
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Helen Hunt Jackson
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <span style="font-size: larger"><b>CONTENTS</b></span>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br >
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br ><br >
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br > <a id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      I
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing was
      late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to put it
      off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the Senora's
      eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head of his
      mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch, the
      Senora thought. It had been always, &ldquo;Ask Senor Felipe,&rdquo; &ldquo;Go to Senor
      Felipe,&rdquo; &ldquo;Senor Felipe will attend to it,&rdquo; ever since Felipe had had the
      dawning of a beard on his handsome face.
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all
      questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place,
      from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the
      Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and
      generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;one of her many
      wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to
      veil such an imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always
      passing through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did
      it; adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous
      force, wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would
      suspect it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her
      rosary hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an
      expression of mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked
      simply like a sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like
      her race, but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice
      heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either
      loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech,
      which came near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which
      people speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear
      as if she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took
      heart; when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that
      the speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly
      that she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired,
      or in a way to best attain her ends.
    </p>
    <p>
      About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head
      shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him
      from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which
      would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were
      ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back with
      the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture. &ldquo;There were
      plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,&rdquo; he said one morning,&mdash;&ldquo;at
      least a thousand;&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;God
      knows why,&rdquo; he interpolated surlily, under his breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not quite understand you, Juan,&rdquo; interrupted Senora Moreno at the
      precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had
      escaped Juan's lips; &ldquo;speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in
      my old age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on Juan
      Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal as one of
      his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he instantly and
      involuntarily said, &ldquo;Beg your pardon, Senora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan,&rdquo; the Senora replied with exquisite
      gentleness; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senora,&rdquo; answered the mollified Juan; &ldquo;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&mdash;Luigo will bring
      his flock back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which
      Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous
      epithet before Luigo's name.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan
      Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down as
      usual to the score of young Senor Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the Senora's
      countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen it. His eyes
      had been turned away from her, looking down into the upturned eager face
      of his favorite collie, who was leaping and gambolling and barking at his
      feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Down, Capitan, down!&rdquo; he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him; &ldquo;thou
      makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito,&rdquo; said the Senora in a sweet but
      icy tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora, it is not to harm the lad,&rdquo; Juan began, every fibre of his
      faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more from
      him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual slow
      pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left hand,
      and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prayers, always prayers!&rdquo; thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed
      her. &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo; And the old man stamped his foot with a
      not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in which he felt
      himself put.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!&rdquo; he muttered aloud. &ldquo;Ay, that
      will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,&rdquo;&mdash;at which slip of
      the tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo; Saying this, Juan shrugged his shoulders, and
      whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of the south side
      of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for twenty odd years
      his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning. Before
      he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, a thought struck him.
      He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick sensitiveness of his
      breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could only come from
      something in connection with sheep; and, true to his instinct of duty,
      pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run, and looked up in his
      master's face waiting for explanation and signal. But Juan did not observe
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor Felipe's
      purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him in good
      humor for the day,&mdash;good humor with everybody, and himself most of
      all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the
      whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole
      width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner of
      his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid content.
      The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen quarters of
      Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable as in the grand
      old days of the General's time, ran back and forth across Juan's legs,
      fell down between them, and picked themselves up by help of clutches at
      his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though loudly scolded and
      warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?&rdquo; saucily asked
      Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out
      of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled that
      the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as
      Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so safe
      in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the
      under-shepherds could testify.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita,&rdquo; answered Juan
      quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock bow
      towards the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He! he! Senorita, indeed!&rdquo; chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the
      cook. &ldquo;Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his
      betters;&rdquo; 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,&mdash;Anita and Maria, the twins, women forty years
      old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought home his
      handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the Little, as
      she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old Juanita, the
      oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was said not to
      know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could tell nothing,
      having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing except to shell
      beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was never happy except
      she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one crop never omitted or
      stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old Juanita they stored every
      year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans in the pod (tons of them,
      one would think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was like a little
      army even now, the Senora's household; nobody ever knew exactly how many
      women were in the kitchen, or how many men in the fields. There were
      always women cousins, or brother's wives or widows or daughters, who had
      come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's husbands or sons, who were
      stopping on their way up or down the valley. When it came to the pay-roll,
      Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages; but who were fed and lodged under
      his roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter into the head
      of a Mexican gentleman to make either count or account of that. It would
      be a disgraceful niggardly thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the
      place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the
      work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled. In
      the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never less
      than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his gates
      each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time had
      indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush
      and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly
      the water at Juan's head, would have thought, &ldquo;Good heavens, do all those
      women, children, and babies belong in that one house!&rdquo; the Senora's sole
      thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Good
      morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and are better,&rdquo; there was
      welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, &ldquo;O my glorious son! The
      saints have sent me in him the face of his father! He is fit for a
      kingdom!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had
      been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding
      it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a king
      born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a throne,
      or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up, better
      than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said, whether
      the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the face of his
      father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the
      occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought
      velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at the knee with
      red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father had
      worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her first look at
      him,&mdash;fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and saw the
      same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her in
      distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, mother mia,&rdquo; cried Felipe, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to
      unbuckle the sword-belt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Felipe,&rdquo; faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. &ldquo;It is my
      wish that you wear them;&rdquo; and staggering to her feet, with a burst of
      tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many
      times&mdash;never unkissed&mdash;buckled, in the days when her husband had
      bade her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. &ldquo;Wear
      them!&rdquo; she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry of
      tears,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo; And she followed him to the gate, and stood erect,
      bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was out of
      sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly to her
      room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at the head
      of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that she might
      be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From which part
      of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to imagine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father
      Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not
      in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of
      Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still
      more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on
      between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep on
      the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two together
      and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, and not to
      be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,&rdquo; said the
      Senora. &ldquo;I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, Felipe,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile of
      filial affection and gratified manly vanity. &ldquo;Indeed, my mother, if I can
      be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the saints;&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;You will spoil me, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you make me so proud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Felipe, it is I who am proud,&rdquo; promptly replied the mother; &ldquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;there, there is a
      christening. Yes, the 10th is the very earliest that he can be here,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed,&rdquo; 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; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It was
      a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it; and
      two weeks looked long to wait.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is always thus after a fever,&rdquo; said his mother. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said that, did he!&rdquo; exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till
      the Father comes, would it?&rdquo; asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the
      thing were evenly balanced in her mind. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for my
      pleasure,&rdquo; answered Felipe, still wrathful, &ldquo;and that is the end of it.&rdquo;
       And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno had
      had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito himself
      suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As for Felipe,
      if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother, and not he, who
      had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better deferred until the
      arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, and that nothing should
      be said on the ranch about this being the real reason of the postponing,
      Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and have thought that person
      either crazy or a fool.
    </p>
    <p>
      To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never
      to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men, as
      instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that one
      gets from a hand or a foot,&mdash;this is to triumph, indeed: to be as
      nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have been
      men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who have
      sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a great degree. By
      it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sovereigns; and have
      grasped, held, and played with the destinies of empires. But it is to be
      questioned whether even in these notable instances there has ever been
      such marvellous completeness of success as is sometimes seen in the case
      of a woman in whom the power is an instinct and not an attainment; a
      passion rather than a purpose. Between the two results, between the two
      processes, there is just that difference which is always to be seen
      between the stroke of talent and the stroke of genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      II
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found in
      California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half elegant,
      wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men and women of
      degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of the Spanish
      and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still the law of
      the land, and its old name, &ldquo;New Spain,&rdquo; was an ever-present link and
      stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its people.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more
      also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen again
      on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still; industries
      and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its century,&mdash;in
      fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left standing one
      such house as the Senora Moreno's.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a
      radius of forty miles,&mdash;forty miles westward, down the valley to the
      sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good forty
      miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very strictly
      defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon land by
      inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno owned all this
      land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It was not and could
      not be answered to the satisfaction of the United States Land Commission,
      which, after the surrender of California, undertook to sift and adjust
      Mexican land titles; and that was the way it had come about that the
      Senora Moreno now called herself a poor woman. Tract after tract, her
      lands had been taken away from her; it looked for a time as if nothing
      would be left. Every one of the claims based on deeds of gift from
      Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most intimate friend, was disallowed.
      They all went by the board in one batch, and took away from the Senora in
      a day the greater part of her best pasture-lands. They were lands which
      had belonged to the Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the
      mouth of the valley down which the little stream which ran past her house
      went to the sea; and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora,
      when she was young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all
      the way on their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip
      of shore. No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them
      always as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least
      realized that the taking possession of California was not only a
      conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the
      real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which gave
      up the country, as to the country itself which was given up. Provinces
      passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of great powers,
      have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none of the
      dignities or compensations of the transaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself
      beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such a
      transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country; probably
      none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the valley
      was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which had once
      belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura; and after all
      the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and adjudications were
      ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of what would have been
      thought by any new-comer into the country to be a handsome estate, but
      which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora a pitiful fragment of
      one. Moreover, she declared that she should never feel secure of a foot of
      even this. Any day, she said, the United States Government might send out
      a new Land Commission to examine the decrees of the first, and revoke such
      as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a thief. Nobody need feel himself
      safe under American rule. There was no knowing what might happen any day;
      and year by year the lines of sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism
      deepened on the Senora's fast aging face.
    </p>
    <p>
      It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out a
      road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of past the
      front. &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;its face turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was
      opened,&mdash;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. &ldquo;That the
      heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the estate of a good
      Catholic,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn,
      outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller who
      had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left or the
      right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses, which he
      couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not often happen that
      the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle heart journeying by, and
      thus justified the pious half of the Senora's impulse? Certain it is, that
      many a good Catholic halted and crossed himself when he first beheld them,
      in the lonely places, standing out in sudden relief against the blue sky;
      and if he said a swift short prayer at the sight, was he not so much the
      better?
    </p>
    <p>
      The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of
      the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which
      looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner court,
      were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the family life
      went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when it was
      necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was done here,
      in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, were washed, sat
      in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said their prayers,
      took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita shelled her beans
      there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, till towards night they
      were sometimes piled up high around her, like corn-husks at a husking. The
      herdsmen and shepherds smoked there, lounged there, trained their dogs
      there; there the young made love, and the old dozed; the benches, which
      ran the entire length of the walls, were worn into hollows, and shone like
      satin; the tiled floors also were broken and sunk in places, making little
      wells, which filled up in times of hard rains, and were then an invaluable
      addition to the children's resources for amusement, and also to the
      comfort of the dogs, cats, and fowls, who picked about among them, taking
      sips from each.
    </p>
    <p>
      The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must have
      been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms opened
      on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four steps
      higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the look of
      a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great red
      water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, stood in
      close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing fine
      geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's passion for
      musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong that she
      sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father Salvierderra
      in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and giving them to
      him, said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is in your blood, Senora,&rdquo; the old monk replied. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; cried the Senora, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Not strange, daughter,&rdquo; replied Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there were
      many sorts of climbing vines,&mdash;some coming from the ground, and
      twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls,
      swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against the
      walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished, shining
      smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians, nobody knew
      how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient creatures, with
      only stones for tools.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the Senora's
      canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different generations,
      raised by the Senora. She was never without a young bird-family on hand;
      and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it was thought a piece of
      good luck to come into possession of a canary or finch of Senora Moreno's
      'raising.
    </p>
    <p>
      Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all was
      garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always green,
      never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never without
      flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early spring, a
      fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from the hills on
      the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise clouds had
      fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand stretched away
      other orchards,&mdash;peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; and beyond
      these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or bloom or fruit, at
      whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south veranda.
    </p>
    <p>
      A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with
      grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led
      straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden, to
      a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade of a
      dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone washboards
      on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling, and no running
      away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to the eye of the
      Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had known how
      picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting the dripping
      linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the stones, sousing
      it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each other's faces, they
      would have been content to stay at the washing day in and day out, for
      there was always somebody to look on from above. Hardly a day passed that
      the Senora had not visitors. She was still a person of note; her house the
      natural resting-place for all who journeyed through the valley; and
      whoever came, spent all of his time, when not eating, sleeping, or walking
      over the place, sitting with the Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in
      winter were cold enough, and in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive
      the Senora and her friends indoors. There stood on the veranda three
      carved oaken chairs, and a carved bench, also of oak, which had been
      brought to the Senora for safe keeping by the faithful old sacristan of
      San Luis Rey, at the time of the occupation of that Mission by the United
      States troops, soon after the conquest of California. Aghast at the
      sacrilegious acts of the soldiers, who were quartered in the very church
      itself, and amused themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of
      the saints' statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after
      night, bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some
      articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little hovel,
      until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more stealthily,
      he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of a cart, under
      a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who felt herself
      deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything as a sacred
      trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again, whenever the
      Missions should be restored, of which at that time all Catholics had good
      hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the Senora's house was
      without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the Madonna; and some had
      two; and in the little chapel in the garden the altar was surrounded by a
      really imposing row of holy and apostolic figures, which had looked down
      on the splendid ceremonies of the San Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's
      time, no more benignly than they now did on the humbler worship of the
      Senora's family in its diminished estate. That one had lost an eye,
      another an arm, that the once brilliant colors of the drapery were now
      faded and shabby, only enhanced the tender reverence with which the Senora
      knelt before them, her eyes filling with indignant tears at thought of the
      heretic hands which had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling
      wreaths which had been placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of
      the last ceremonial at which they had figured in the Mission, had been
      brought away with them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had
      replaced each one, holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue
      itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built by
      the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four
      children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome
      Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's
      time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living
      within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be witnessed
      there was like the scenes at the Missions,&mdash;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, &ldquo;That day, I burn down my chapel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of
      unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I spoke rashly, my son,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly
      attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the gray
      gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented the
      things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father
      Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship
      which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara
      Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was at
      that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment and
      romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the gayeties,
      excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the ceremonies
      and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as the most
      beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the navy, and men
      of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast from Monterey to San
      Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe Moreno, one of the
      most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her wedding ceremonies were
      the most splendid ever seen in the country. The right tower of the Mission
      church at Santa Barbara had been just completed, and it was arranged that
      the consecration of this tower should take place at the time of her
      wedding, and that her wedding feast should be spread in the long outside
      corridor of the Mission building. The whole country, far and near, was
      bid. The feast lasted three days; open tables to everybody; singing,
      dancing, eating, drinking, and making merry. At that time there were long
      streets of Indian houses stretching eastward from the Mission; before each
      of these houses was built a booth of green boughs. The Indians, as well as
      the Fathers from all the other Missions, were invited to come. The Indians
      came in bands, singing songs and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the
      Santa Barbara Indians went out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts,
      and strewing seeds on the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora
      and her bridegroom, splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted,
      whenever they appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On
      the third day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles
      in their hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and
      round the new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy
      water on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a
      blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the
      newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied by
      several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan Fathers,
      up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and being
      warmly welcomed and entertained at each.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the
      frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers he,
      being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and
      enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material
      assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having
      heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission
      churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers either
      in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the daughter of a
      distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara Superior, he had
      linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and interests of the
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned out
      to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the
      Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer, took
      the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force
      compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high up
      by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across the
      corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously
      undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, let them do it, if they like,&rdquo; he cried, laughingly, to Padre
      Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back.
      &ldquo;Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all
      his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to be
      driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry belonging
      to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For music, there was
      the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing, quacking of the
      fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and whip-cracking of the
      excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came the turkeys, then the
      roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and then the yellow, next
      the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle long files of geese, some
      strutting, some half flying and hissing in resentment and terror at the
      unwonted coercions to which they were subjected. The Indians had been hard
      at work all night capturing, sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and
      file of their novel pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight
      never was seen, and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other.
      Before it was done with, the General and his bride had nearly died with
      laughter; and the General could never allude to it without laughing almost
      as heartily again.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the
      Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor,
      balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of
      festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The
      belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for
      these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to her.
      This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. She was
      then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then, underneath
      the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look thoughtful,
      tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the reflection of
      those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made her, as years
      developed her character and stormy fates thickened around her life, the
      unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate adherent of the
      Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions, downfalls, Spanish,
      Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint, her poise, remained the
      same. She simply grew more and more proudly, passionately, a Spaniard and
      a Moreno; more and more stanchly and fierily a Catholic, and a lover of
      the Franciscans.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions, under
      the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside herself.
      More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by no means
      without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of the Missions to
      more energetic action, to implore the governmental authorities to
      interfere, and protect the Church's property. It was largely in
      consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor Micheltorena issued
      his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the Missions south of San
      Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his political head, and
      General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the skirmishes of the
      insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back to
      health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her unhappy
      country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she saw the ruin of
      the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties melting away, like
      dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest administrators and
      politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the unprincipled greed
      in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven from the country or
      dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted herself to what, she was
      forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable will of God for the
      discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort of bewildered
      resignation she waited to see what further sufferings were to come, to
      fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some mysterious purpose,
      the faithful must endure. But when close upon all this discomfiture and
      humiliation of her Church followed the discomfiture and humiliation of her
      country in war, and the near and evident danger of an English-speaking
      people's possessing the land, all the smothered fire of the Senora's
      nature broke out afresh. With unfaltering hands she buckled on her
      husband's sword, and with dry eyes saw him go forth to fight. She had but
      one regret, that she was not the mother of sons to fight also.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would thou wert a man, Felipe,&rdquo; she exclaimed again and again in tones
      the child never forgot. &ldquo;Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also to
      fight these foreigners!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than the
      American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came trading to
      post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being forced to wage
      a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be believed. In the outset
      she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in the contest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten by
      these traders? It is impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight
      the Mexican forces made, she said icily, &ldquo;He would have chosen to die
      rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of the
      enemy.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;glad that he was spared
      the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened; and even the
      yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured him among the
      saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether indignation did
      not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things were going in the
      land for whose sake he had died.
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made
      Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew, who
      knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental girl,
      who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed with
      the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now, in the
      low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who
      manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it about
      that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sins to a
      Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      III
    </h2>
    <p>
      JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's
      family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona.
      Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the
      Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present. For
      one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of the
      Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed
      with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the shepherds,
      the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry, all loved the
      sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The Senora loved her
      not; never had loved her, never could love her; and yet she had stood in
      the place of mother to the girl ever since her childhood, and never once
      during the whole sixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in
      act. She had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienable
      stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise. More
      than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora's fault.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's
      acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know&mdash;and no
      one ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno&mdash;who Ramona's
      parents were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name
      not being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended
      and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and
      women here and there in the country could have told the strange story of
      Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much had
      happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she was
      in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of the
      generation just going out were not the business of the young people coming
      in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what was the
      use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to be
      forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer
      evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all
      young men and maidens thrilled who heard it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an elder sister of the Senora's,&mdash;a sister old enough to be
      wooed and won while the Senora was yet at play,&mdash;who had been
      promised in marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a
      beautiful woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her
      standing in the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like
      a man bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for
      Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest
      accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus
      she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only after
      his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise to
      become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, and
      Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line of ships
      which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, carvings,
      woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came in his ships.
      The arrival of one of them was always an event; and Angus himself, having
      been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully well-mannered for a
      seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best houses, wherever his ships
      went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour her
      lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to each
      other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north. It was
      remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the Senorita, that
      she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face away, long before
      her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the &ldquo;San Jose&rdquo; said that
      Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from
      his sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey ship had long before
      disappeared from view.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor was
      pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he would
      bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her, treasures
      of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through the long
      weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the waves, and
      letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins, velvets,
      laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When he could not
      longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would pace the deck,
      swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those of one flying in fear;
      at such times the men heard him muttering and whispering to himself,
      &ldquo;Ramona! Ramona!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;San Jose&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the
      ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house, and,
      speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the hands of
      those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran bareheaded up
      the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped by the guard, who
      knew him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it true?&rdquo; gasped Angus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook
      under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he
      would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into a
      maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street, singing
      and laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was
      seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and
      lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was
      Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See what the Senorita escaped!&rdquo; said the thoughtless. &ldquo;She was quite
      right not to have married such a drunken wretch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he
      possessed,&mdash;ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds
      squandered in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride.
      He did not seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it,
      and soon returned with her husband to Monterey.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los
      Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission, and
      was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more
      surprising news that he had married a squaw,&mdash;a squaw with several
      Indian children,&mdash;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: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord had
      indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her childlessness,
      bitter as that had been, was the least of them. Speechless, she rose, and
      stretched out her arms for the child. He placed it in them. Still the
      child slept on, undisturbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know if I will be permitted,&rdquo; she said falteringly; &ldquo;my husband&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him,&rdquo; replied Angus.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora's face brightened. &ldquo;If that be so, I hope it can be as you
      wish,&rdquo; she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking
      down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, &ldquo;But the child's mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle
      and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the full
      how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of his hand,
      which spoke volumes, he said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in her
      arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the infant.
      At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. &ldquo;Oh, no! not
      to the Church! I will love it as my own,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in
      their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful, so
      dear. &ldquo;I should hardly have known you, Senora!&rdquo; burst from him
      involuntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiled piteously, with no resentment. &ldquo;That is not strange. I hardly
      know myself,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Life has dealt very hardly with me. I should
      not have known you either&mdash;Angus.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never, so long as I live, Angus,&rdquo; replied Senora Ortegna. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. &ldquo;Before I had thought
      of bringing her to you,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;at first I had only the thought of
      giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by&rdquo;&mdash;the words
      refused to leave his lips&mdash;&ldquo;the name&mdash;Can you not guess, Senora,
      what name she bears?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora knew. &ldquo;My own?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Angus bowed his head. &ldquo;The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke with
      love,&rdquo; he said, reassured, &ldquo;was the name my daughter should bear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between them.
      Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a
      simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms
      with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the
      hands which lovingly held his sleeping child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,&rdquo; he cried,
      and was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to
      say in a low tone, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two lovers,
      so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again, forever.
      The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been bridged in
      both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart of the man it was
      the old passionate adoring love reawakening; a resurrection of the buried
      dead, to full life, with lineaments unchanged. In the woman it was not
      that; there was no buried love to come to such resurrection in her heart,
      for she had never loved Angus Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated,
      heartbroken, she woke at that moment to the realization of what manner of
      love it had been which she had thrown away in her youth; her whole being
      yearned for it now, and Angus was avenged.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into his wife's
      room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his eyes,&mdash;his
      wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay, smiling in its
      sleep, a beautiful infant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What in the devil's name,&rdquo; he began; then recollecting, he muttered: &ldquo;Oh,
      the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your first
      child!&rdquo; and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by, giving the
      cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since
      passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But it
      was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from that
      day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments where
      there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight of her
      baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed
      from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's character
      was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful dissipations
      of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country. But from the
      wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of complaint. She
      was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But now she saw a
      reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was plain to her that
      she had not many years to live; and what then would become of the child?
      Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only too certain what would
      become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the lonely woman passed, with
      the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly endeavoring to forecast her
      future. The near chance of her own death had not occurred to her mind when
      she accepted the trust.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian
      messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He brought
      her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day before his
      death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a quarter of a
      century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought for his bride.
      These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the lowest depths of his
      degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him from parting with
      them. The letter contained only these words: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not till
      she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had put the
      box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a solemn
      promise that at her own death she would adopt the little Ramona. This
      promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father Salvierderra's
      influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any dealings with such
      alien and mongrel blood, &ldquo;If the child were pure Indian, I would like it
      better,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I like not these crosses. It is the worst, and not the
      best of each, that remains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew that
      her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's future
      was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life the child
      was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly and defiantly
      infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations in his wife's
      presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her helpless
      invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga blood to
      endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke to her
      husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to see her
      die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and damasks,
      she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling into the
      hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would stand in her
      place as soon as the funeral services had been said over her dead body.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno
      conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to
      be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas
      lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never
      ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their
      lonely wretchedness.
    </p>
    <p>
      One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell to
      her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little four-year-old
      Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next morning set sail
      for home.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all kinds
      were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off,
      post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding their
      return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of instructions
      to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in trust for Ramona;
      also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading which he sank into a
      fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and gave his infamous
      associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost their comrade. But he
      soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and settled back into his
      old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. Father Salvierderra could
      alarm him, but not save him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never told
      the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It was a
      sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them nothing
      but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last.
    </p>
    <p>
      How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in her
      own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was ever
      infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a little
      child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, &ldquo;Senora, why did my
      mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: &ldquo;Your mother had nothing
      whatever to do with it. It was your father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was my mother dead?&rdquo; continued the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Too late the Senora saw her mistake. &ldquo;I do not know,&rdquo; she replied; which
      was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. &ldquo;I never saw your
      mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?&rdquo; persisted Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, never,&rdquo; answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the
      innocent child's unconscious touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her
      eyes tearful. At last she said, &ldquo;I wish I knew if my mother was dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; asked the Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to
      stay with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience. Taking
      the child in her arms, she said, &ldquo;Who has been talking to you of these
      things, Ramona?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juan Can,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did he say?&rdquo; asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded no
      good to Juan Canito.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,&rdquo; answered
      Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various reminiscences on the
      subject. &ldquo;Twice I heard him. He said that my mother was no good, and that
      my father was bad too.&rdquo; And the tears rolled down the child's cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness, now.
      Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said, with
      an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the
      situation,&mdash;that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to
      the Senora Ortegna. &ldquo;Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very
      much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, very much indeed,&rdquo; said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. &ldquo;She
      had grieved many years because she had no child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart,
      grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts
      into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the
      Senora by saying in a half-whisper, &ldquo;Why did not my father bring me to you
      first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said: &ldquo;Your
      father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I was only a
      child, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,&rdquo; continued
      Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without
      noticing the Senora's reply. &ldquo;A son is more than a daughter; but most
      people have both,&rdquo; eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this
      would bring.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very
      mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability to love
      Ramona had swept through her mind. &ldquo;Ramona,&rdquo; she said firmly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again
      asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had been
      a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been always
      pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her year by
      year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to tell her
      anything more about her father and mother. There were few mornings on
      which the girl did not think, &ldquo;Perhaps it may be to-day that she will tell
      me.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Did he know that you did not want any daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at least
      hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never put it in
      words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem sometimes
      to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity, with an
      unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as
      resignation is above rebellious repining.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual conduct,
      that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face was sunny,
      she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human being without a
      cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her industry was
      tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent of the Sacred
      Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her at much personal
      sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno estate had ever
      seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters, who spoke of her
      habitually as the &ldquo;blessed child.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;a
      nature as unlike as possible to the Senora's, with its mysterious depths
      and stormy, hidden currents.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender, sorrowful
      pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only express by
      renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty possible in
      the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on Senora Moreno,
      though its source she never suspected; and it won no new recognition from
      her for Ramona, no increase of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all this
      graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and more he
      wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody knew so well
      as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew what it meant,
      how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe had learned
      while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother was to appear
      to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated him. And long
      before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of keeping to himself
      most of the things he thought and felt about his little playmate sister,&mdash;a
      dangerous habit, out of which were slowly ripening bitter fruits for the
      Senora's gathering in later years.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before Father
      Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the year that
      she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey that he could
      make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his body that had
      failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have been nothing to
      him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and happy thoughts,
      stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories and still sadder
      anticipations,&mdash;the downfall of the Missions, the loss of their vast
      estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. The final
      decision of the United States Government in regard to the Mission-lands
      had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed that ultimate
      restoration of these great estates to the Church was inevitable. In the
      long vigils which he always kept when at home at the Franciscan Monastery
      in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement in the church, and
      praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had often had visions
      vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the Mission establishments
      should be reinstated in all their old splendor and prosperity, and their
      Indian converts again numbered by tens of thousands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate these
      visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they must
      come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year he
      journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission, the
      buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold, and
      settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing, driven
      back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble work of
      his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his faith died
      out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, also, were
      giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as Francis of
      Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in a purse for
      a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for any sort of
      secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable clothes while
      there were others suffering for want of them&mdash;and there were always
      such&mdash;seemed to him a sin for which one might not undeservedly be
      smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the Brothers again
      and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away to the first
      beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have been left bare,
      and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had not been carefully
      hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could not give them all
      away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often sublime sight, a man
      who has survived, not only his own time, but the ideas and ideals of it.
      Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the bitterness of exile, the anguish of
      friendlessness at their utmost, are in it; and yet it is so much greater
      than they, that even they seem small part of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near the
      home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those midsummer
      days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The almonds had
      bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the peaches and
      pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy tint of green,
      so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray. The willows were
      vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and glossy like laurel. The
      billowy hills on either side the valley were covered with verdure and
      bloom,&mdash;myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the earth that
      their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, and on the green of the
      grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each other and blend into a
      changeful color.
    </p>
    <p>
      The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern
      California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they
      are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in the
      sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture.
      Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself
      permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed them
      with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,&mdash;all members
      of the sacred choir praising God.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh
      drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old man
      resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down. The fairer
      this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the Church,&mdash;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,&mdash;farms opening, towns
      growing; the Americans pouring in, at all points, to reap the advantages
      of their new possessions. It was this which had made his journey
      heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in approaching the Senora Moreno's, as
      if he were coming to one of the last sure strongholds of the Catholic
      faith left in the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the highway
      into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut through the
      hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was more than a year
      since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing fainter and
      fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard, he said to
      himself, &ldquo;I think no one can have passed through here this year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild mustard
      in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament, in the
      branches of which the birds of the air may rest. Coming up out of the
      earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find starting-point in an inch,
      it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, ten, twenty feet, with
      hundreds of fine feathery branches locking and interlocking with all the
      other hundreds around it, till it is an inextricable network like lace.
      Then it bursts into yellow bloom still finer, more feathery and lacelike.
      The stems are so infinitesimally small, and of so dark a green, that at a
      short distance they do not show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating
      in the air; at times it looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky
      behind it, as it is often seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The
      plant is a tyrant and a nuisance,&mdash;the terror of the farmer; it takes
      riotous possession of a whole field in a season; once in, never out; for
      one plant this year, a million the next; but it is impossible to wish that
      the land were freed from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as
      the nugget gold is in the pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these
      delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could
      make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one would
      disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma, and not
      unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his journey's
      end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through the golden meshes.
      Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He paused,&mdash;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, &ldquo;The Canticle of the Sun:&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for our
      brother the Sun,&mdash;who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and
      splendor shadows forth unto us thine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ramona!&rdquo; exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure.
      &ldquo;The blessed child!&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path, and something told me you
      were near!&rdquo; she sprang forward, and sank on her knees before him, bowing
      her head for his blessing. In silence he laid his hands on her brow. It
      would not have been easy for him to speak to her at that first moment. She
      had looked to the devout old monk, as she sprang through the cloud of
      golden flowers, the sun falling on her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her
      eyes shining, more like an apparition of an angel or saint, than like the
      flesh-and-blood maiden whom he had carried in his arms when she was a
      babe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!&rdquo; she said,
      rising. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The monk smiled half sadly. &ldquo;Would there were more with such faith as
      yours, daughter,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Are all well on the place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Father, all well,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Felipe has been ill with a fever;
      but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for&mdash;for your
      coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,&mdash;&ldquo;fretting for the
      sheep-shearing,&rdquo; but recollected herself in time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the Senora?&rdquo; said the Father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is well,&rdquo; answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of tone,&mdash;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. &ldquo;And you,&mdash;are you well yourself, Father?&rdquo; 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,&mdash;a
      stout staff to steady his steps. &ldquo;You must be very tired with the long
      journey on foot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, Ramona, I am tired,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Old age is conquering me. It will
      not be many times more that I shall see this place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do not say that, Father,&rdquo; cried Ramona; &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she added, seeing the Father slowly shake his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No;&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona
      slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and holding
      them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they came out from
      the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and
      the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been
      cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees,
      as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind
      blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in
      gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate
      welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times
      since she became a woman, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Felipe
      looks so bright!&rdquo; she thought, as she noted his mobile changing face,
      never for two successive seconds the same. &ldquo;There is nobody like Felipe.&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;What is it she
      thinks when she looks into my eyes so?&rdquo; he wondered. If he had known that
      the thing she was usually thinking was simply, &ldquo;How much handsomer brown
      eyes are than blue! I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!&rdquo; he would
      have perceived, perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known
      it, that a girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at
      him as a lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only
      enough to perplex and deter him.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate of
      the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking down at
      it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an eager leap
      forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals of distress to
      her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty. Margarita was, of
      all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they were nearly of the same
      age, it had been Margarita who first had charge of Ramona; the nurse and
      her charge had played together, grown up together, become women together,
      and were now, although Margarita never presumed on the relation, or forgot
      to address Ramona as Senorita, more like friends than like mistress and
      maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, Father,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And kissing his hand, she flew rather than
      ran across the field to the foot of the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and
      buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay at
      her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?&rdquo; cried Ramona, in the
      affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand
      from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled
      linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry of
      dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and she gasped
      out, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth which
      the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front of
      beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the threads
      and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the cloth which had
      always been on the altar, when mass was said, since Margarita's and
      Ramona's earliest recollections,&mdash;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. &ldquo;How did it happen, Margarita?&rdquo; she
      whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!&rdquo; sobbed the girl. &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and she shook from head to foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop crying, Margarita!&rdquo; said Ramona, firmly, &ldquo;and tell me all about it.
      It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the saints bless you!&rdquo; cried Margarita, looking up for the first
      time. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona laughed in spite of herself. &ldquo;You'll serve me better by keeping on
      your feet,&rdquo; she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through her
      tears. They were both young.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but Senorita,&rdquo; Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her tears
      flowing afresh, &ldquo;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&mdash;so&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the artichoke-patch!&rdquo; ejaculated Ramona. &ldquo;How under heavens did it get
      there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places, &ldquo;It
      is not so bad as it looks,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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,&rdquo; and she glanced at the sun. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will the Senora know?&rdquo; asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but
      still in mortal terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. &ldquo;You would not
      be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?&rdquo; she said gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?&rdquo; pleaded the
      girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended,&rdquo; said Ramona;
      but she did not smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Senorita,&rdquo; said Margarita, deprecatingly, &ldquo;you do not know what it is
      to have the Senora displeased with one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much
      which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in the
      country generally.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything were
      ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the shearers
      arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming in by
      sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed his
      messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians the
      urgent need of their losing no time on the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the messenger
      to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the Father's
      movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even she
      perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much longer,
      or, as Juan Canito said, &ldquo;forever.&rdquo; The Father might have fallen ill; and
      if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they heard of it, so
      scanty were the means of communication between the remote places on his
      route of visitation. The messenger had therefore been sent to summon the
      Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned herself to the inevitable;
      piously praying, however, morning and night, and at odd moments in the
      day, that the Father might arrive before the Indians did. When she saw him
      coming up the garden-walk, leaning on the arm of her Felipe, on the
      afternoon of the very day which was the earliest possible day for the
      Indians to arrive, it was not strange that she felt, mingled with the joy
      of her greeting to her long-loved friend and confessor, a triumphant
      exultation that the saints had heard her prayers.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the
      house was a signal for unwonted activities there,&mdash;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. &ldquo;But if he will not eat, he can
      see,&rdquo; she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was enlisted
      in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder afforded, She
      grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the cabbages to go
      into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full of rice, because
      Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always two
      onions?&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the
      kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going
      back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each
      child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of the
      meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a
      glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers
      and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita,
      between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping in
      the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her army of
      infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught, however, but
      that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted candle in the
      kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis of Paula in her
      bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace might be made whole
      like new. Several times before the afternoon had waned she snatched a
      moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet and pray her foolish
      little prayer over again. We think we are quite sure that it is a foolish
      little prayer, when people pray to have torn lace made whole. But it would
      be hard to show the odds between asking that, and asking that it may rain,
      or that the sick may get well. As the grand old Russian says, what men
      usually ask for, when they pray to God, is, that two and two may not make
      four. All the same he is to be pitied who prays not. It was only the
      thought of that candle at Saint Francis's feet, which enabled Margarita to
      struggle through this anxious and unhappy afternoon and evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last supper was ready,&mdash;a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in
      the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls and
      red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the boiled
      rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans) so dear to
      all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed pears, or
      preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of various
      sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an aroma of tea
      such as had never been bought or sold in all California, the Senora's one
      extravagance and passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Ramona?&rdquo; asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she
      entered the dining-room, &ldquo;Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are
      waiting for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What
      would happen now! &ldquo;O Saint Francis,&rdquo; she inwardly prayed, &ldquo;help us this
      once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Do not call Senorita Ramona.&rdquo; Then, turning to his
      mother, &ldquo;Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to
      perform for to-morrow,&rdquo; he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother,
      adding, &ldquo;we will not wait for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a
      mechanical way, and began, &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo; Felipe, seeing that questions were
      to follow, interrupted her: &ldquo;I have just spoken with her. It is impossible
      for her to come;&rdquo; and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged
      him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied
      curiosity as best she could.
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude, which
      he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood; for Ramona
      had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing him under her
      window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far
      as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious
      than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was
      skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came
      streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona,
      darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the grass,
      had dipped the linen into the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks
      scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair
      fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in
      her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see
      the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get
      them out without fraying the lace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her
      whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over the
      stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously
      scanning it, then plunging it in again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was
      aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty. A
      sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black against
      the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the band of
      Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the sheep sheds
      and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not see. He had been
      standing for some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree a few rods
      from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was Alessandro, son of Pablo
      Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking slowly along in advance of
      his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror held in the sun, smite his
      eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the glittering water where Ramona knelt.
      In the same second he saw Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed; walked
      abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his disappearance.
      Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter of a gnarled old
      willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on the beautiful
      vision,&mdash;for so it seemed to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke
      aloud; &ldquo;Christ! What shall I do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      V
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora
      Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the south
      and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky, this
      eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on watch for
      it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray reached the
      window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing there with
      bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in all devout
      Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly abandoned. At
      the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family arose, and began
      singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the duty of each
      person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up in bed, and join
      in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would be singing, and
      the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like the music of the birds
      in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually invocations to the Virgin,
      or to the saint of the day, and the melodies were sweet and simple.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father
      Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about
      since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by
      the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He
      recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were at
      the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the
      Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could
      see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern
      horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like
      amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not a
      sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without
      difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space.
      Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe
      that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace, and the
      earth was standing still,&mdash;a belief just as grand, just as thrilling,
      so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun long before
      they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent astronomer, with
      the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end, could have had more
      delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than did this
      simple-minded, unlearned man.
    </p>
    <p>
      His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to the
      windows of the house, yet dark and still. &ldquo;Which window is hers? Will she
      open it when the song begins?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to his
      feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south window,
      and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks streaming back,
      began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;O beautiful Queen,
     Princess of Heaven.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined in,&mdash;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,&mdash;scores and scores, nay
      hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the tuning
      of myriads of violins.
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;Singers at dawn
     From the heavens above
     People all regions;
     Gladly we too sing,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's voices
      joined in,&mdash;Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up from
      the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all.
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;Come, O sinners,
     Come, and we will sing
     Tender hymns
     To our refuge,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been the
      leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of its
      splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music. Some
      of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not only
      sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at any of
      the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments as at
      San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and spared no
      pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who showed any
      special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the breaking up of
      the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band of his Indians,
      and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep up the old religious
      services. The music in the little chapel of the Temecula Indians was a
      surprise to all who heard it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and knew
      all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;Beautiful Queen,
     Princess of Heaven,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse
      rising, he could not forbear striking in.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in
      surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking in
      all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang no
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What could it have been? Did I dream it?&rdquo; thought Ramona, drew in her
      head, and began to sing again.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They
      seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great
      wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had a good
      tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but this&mdash;this
      was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of it
      penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain. When
      the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra would
      strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this morning;
      there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to be at work:
      windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all directions,
      ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun rose and let
      a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt
      thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy
      altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good as
      new.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming
      towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief
      bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her
      face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the
      veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already
      entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from his
      vantage-post of observation at the willows.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver urn
      filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding
      these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky canon,
      several miles away.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly up
      the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing why,
      thought, &ldquo;That must be the Indian who sang.&rdquo; As she turned to the right
      and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and knelt on
      the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she came out.
      As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, place the
      ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in front of the
      altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a look as of
      secret intelligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;in the
      time of the king;&rdquo; it was very different now. The Americans would not let
      an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle. A man need not
      read and write, to do that.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching
      Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and
      far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides.
      Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He
      had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in
      his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his
      little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever
      there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from house
      to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the peace. At
      one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian tribes
      farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would be a general
      Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men, women, and
      children driving their flocks and herds with them, to Los Angeles, and
      camped there for several days, that they might be identified with the
      whites in case hostilities became serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every
      day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased, he
      saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his anxieties
      deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend of Father
      Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned to Mexico in
      disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was reported to be
      lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo, that he and his
      people should always live in the valley undisturbed, was all the title
      Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the promise was given, it
      was all that was necessary. The lines marking off the Indians' lands were
      surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No Mexican proprietor ever
      broke faith with an Indian family or village, thus placed on his lands.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such
      pledges and surveyed lines as these were coming 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,&mdash;a long
      sigh, and, &ldquo;We must wait, we can do nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young
      men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old
      before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they knew
      nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was no
      drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the
      hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy
      work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro and
      his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why Alessandro
      had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this, and also the fact
      that even the little education he had received was sufficient to raise a
      slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously aware, between him and the
      maidens of the village. If a quick, warm fancy for any one of them ever
      stirred in his veins, he found himself soon, he knew not how, cured of it.
      For a dance, or a game, or a friendly chat, for the trips into the
      mountains after acorns, or to the marshes for grasses and reeds, he was
      their good comrade, and they were his; but never had the desire to take
      one of them for his wife, entered into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the
      future, for him, was filled full by thoughts which left no room for love's
      dreaming; one purpose and one fear filled it,&mdash;the purpose to be his
      father's worthy successor, for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the
      fear, that exile and ruin were in store for them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in advance
      of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona kneeling at
      the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed to Alessandro
      that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The purposes and the
      fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague wonder, pain, joy, he
      knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that he was bewildered. If he
      had been what the world calls a civilized man, he would have known
      instantly and would have been capable of weighing, analyzing, and
      reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not a civilized man;
      he had to bring to bear on his present situation only simple, primitive,
      uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been a maiden of his own
      people or race, he would have drawn near to her as quickly as iron to the
      magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even think of her in such a
      way, she would have been, to his view, as far removed from him as was the
      morning star beneath whose radiance he had that morning watched, hoping
      for sight of her at her window. He did not, however, go so far as to thus
      think of her. Even that would have been impossible. He only knelt on the
      stones outside the chapel door, mechanically repeating the prayers with
      the rest, waiting for her to reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was
      Senor Felipe's wife; all the same he wished to kneel there till she came
      out, that he might see her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope,
      had narrowed now down to that,&mdash;just one more sight of her. Ever so
      civilized, he could hardly have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed
      to him endlessly long. Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in
      the closing of the final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear
      deep-toned voice pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great
      sea-wave, sweeping along.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as
      much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees,
      she whispered to Felipe: &ldquo;Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians it
      is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that is Alessandro,&rdquo; replied Felipe, &ldquo;old Pablo's son. He is a
      splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not here,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;you forget.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. &ldquo;Does your mother like it, to have
      him play?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe nodded. &ldquo;We'll have him up on the veranda tonight,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied, the
      Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work.
      Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was
      sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, that I have,&rdquo; answered Alessandro; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph.&rdquo; retorted Juan Can. &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juan's invidious emphasis on the word &ldquo;Mexicans&rdquo; did not escape
      Alessandro. &ldquo;And we Indians also,&rdquo; he answered, good-naturedly, betraying
      no annoyance; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to
      this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority of
      Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with
      another &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the
      sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still
      further.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The shearing
      shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,&mdash;a long, narrow
      structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and pillars;
      no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart as was safe, for
      the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks loosely laid from
      beam to beam. On three sides of this were the sheep-pens filled with sheep
      and lambs.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be
      cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed
      only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians had
      already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had been built,
      but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their blankets, on the
      ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored wings of the windmill
      blew furiously round and round, pumping out into the tank below a stream
      of water so swift and strong, that as the men crowded around, wetting and
      sharpening their knives, they got well spattered, and had much merriment,
      pushing and elbowing each other into the spray.
    </p>
    <p>
      A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from the
      four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the fleeces were
      to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the foot of the
      posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. &ldquo;We'll fill more than those
      before night, Senor Felipe,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Now, there is something
      substantial,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;no chance of wool going amiss in market!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next six
      months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and spent the
      next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and redoubling his
      exertions with the sheep.
    </p>
    <p>
      On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like
      half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these, to
      the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and pack
      them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below. Luigo,
      with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with five-cent
      pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty shearers,
      running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into the shed, in a
      twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees, helpless,
      immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The sheep-shearing
      had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the bleating, baa-ing,
      opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, flying of fleeces
      through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping them down in the bales;
      not a second's intermission, except the hour of rest at noon, from sunrise
      till sunset, till the whole eight thousand of the Senora Moreno's sheep
      were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As soon as a sheep was shorn, the
      shearer ran with the fleece in his hand to Luigo, threw it down on a
      table, received his five-cent piece, dropped it in his pocket, ran to the
      pen, dragged out another sheep, and in less than five minutes was back
      again with a second fleece. The shorn sheep, released, bounded off into
      another pen, where, light in the head no doubt from being three to five
      pounds lighter on their legs, they trotted round bewilderedly for a
      moment, then flung up their heels and capered for joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet filled
      the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off the men's
      faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found out very
      soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength since the
      fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for the recollection
      of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and yielded his place to
      the old man. But he was resolved not to give up, and he worked on, though
      his face was purple and his head throbbing. After the bag of fleeces is
      half full, the packer stands in it, jumping with his full weight on the
      wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to compress them as much as possible.
      When Felipe began to do this, he found that he had indeed overrated his
      strength. As the first cloud of the sickening dust came up, enveloping his
      head, choking his breath, he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly,
      &ldquo;Juan, I am ill,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad
      matters worse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
       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, &ldquo;Oh, how will he ever be
      lifted out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will lift him, Senora,&rdquo; cried Alessandro, coming to the front, &ldquo;I am
      very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;He is dead! He is
      dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too,
      believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not dead,&rdquo; cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under
      Felipe's shirt. &ldquo;He is not dead. It is only a faint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously at
      the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it were an
      easy indoor staircase. &ldquo;If I could only get up there!&rdquo; she said, looking
      from one to another. &ldquo;I think I can;&rdquo; and she put one foot on the lower
      round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of the
      scene, his heart heard the word, &ldquo;Senorita.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Senorita!&rdquo; There must have been something
      in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word could not have done
      it. &ldquo;Senorita,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Seeing
      that the expression of anxious distress did not grow less on Ramona's
      face, he continued, in a tone still more earnest, &ldquo;Will not the Senorita
      trust me to bring him safe down?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I will trust
      you. You are Alessandro, are you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita,&rdquo; he answered, greatly surprised, &ldquo;I am Alessandro.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0006">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's
      sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against Roman
      Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the way
      things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was being
      punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a standstill,
      to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora, looking at the
      other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude that, since all this
      ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father Salvierderra at her
      side to give her comfort and counsel.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell
      in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when Juan
      Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor Felipe's
      place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground, and broke
      his right leg,&mdash;a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's bones
      were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able to do
      more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was
      a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith
      in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous beratings and
      reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had
      she known that such blasphemies were being committed under her roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!&rdquo; cried Juan; &ldquo;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.&rdquo; From morning
      till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he
      slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and swore and
      grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita said, to
      wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no pleasing him,
      whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute. For her part,
      she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends had pushed him
      off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons for leaving him
      to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up in the minds of
      all the servants towards him. His own reckless language, combined with
      Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believing that
      something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the Devil was in a fair
      way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old man, in addition to
      all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he had for his torments,
      was in having his fellow-servants, men and women, drop in, sit by his
      pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was going on; and when by
      degrees they dropped off, coming more and more seldom, and one by one
      leaving off coming altogether, it was the one drop that overflowed his cup
      of misery; and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling, and
      spoke only when he must.
    </p>
    <p>
      This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she
      thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the
      Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the
      needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the
      doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie
      still in bed and be thus tended. &ldquo;Three months!&rdquo; sighed Margarita. &ldquo;If I
      be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought to
      Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a fierce
      relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and raving in
      delirium, always about the wool.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a
      round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!&mdash;Jesus, how this
      sun burns my head!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Several times he had called &ldquo;Alessandro&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin,&rdquo; sobbed out
      Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We might try it,&rdquo; said Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;Have you your violin here,
      Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, no, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;I did not bring it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;He
      was speaking of your voice also.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, try, try.&rdquo; said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. &ldquo;Sing something
      low and soft.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking for
      a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An
      expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head
      to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three
      watching him looked at each other in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a miracle,&rdquo; said Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;He will sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was what he wanted!&rdquo; whispered Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a second;
      then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying to a
      saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower, till
      the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower, slower;
      finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As they
      ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, go on, go on!&rdquo; the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with anxiety.
      &ldquo;Do not stop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the air
      in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt something
      like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by reason of the
      notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's healthy outdoor
      experience to enable him to understand such a phenomenon. Felipe breathed
      more and more slowly, softly, regularly; soon he was in a deep sleep. The
      singing stopped; Felipe did not stir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I go?&rdquo; whispered Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo; replied the Senora, impatiently. &ldquo;He may wake any minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and remained
      standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on one side of
      the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,&mdash;all praying;
      the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary beads
      slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall, at the
      head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side a
      picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long wicks
      smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as the ends
      fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the Madonna. The
      Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming down her
      face as she mechanically told her beads.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is his betrothed, no doubt,&rdquo; thought Alessandro. &ldquo;The saints will not
      let him die;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;I will not
      go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he awakes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly about
      him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then he threw
      himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into the sky.
      Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at full length
      by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the house that
      danger and anguish were there.
    </p>
    <p>
      One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. Alessandro
      rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora had not
      changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer. But Ramona
      had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a sitting posture,
      with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead, and fallen asleep.
      Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and heavy circles under
      her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and nights she had
      scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's
      illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be
      done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and
      through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down with grief at the
      thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till she saw him lying
      there delirious, and as she in her inexperience thought, dying, how her
      whole life was entwined with his. But now, at the very thought of what it
      would be to live without him, her heart sickened. &ldquo;When he is buried, I
      will ask Father Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here
      alone,&rdquo; she said to herself, never for a moment perceiving that the word
      &ldquo;alone&rdquo; was a strange one to have come into her mind in the connection.
      The thought of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations of the
      future which so smote her with terror. In the Senora's presence, Ramona
      always felt herself alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill, his
      eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's eyes she
      had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more beautiful
      than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a lover's
      instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines on her face in
      the last three days. &ldquo;It will kill her if he dies,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;if these
      three days have made her look like that.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;God be praised,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in Alessandro's
      breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which were warring
      there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling in opposite
      directions; one saying &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; and the other saying &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; He would not
      have known what any one meant, who had said to him, &ldquo;It is danger to stay;
      it is safety to fly.&rdquo; All the same, he felt as if he could do neither.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is another shearing yet, Father,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Salvierderra's face fell. &ldquo;No, my son, certainly not,&rdquo; he said;
      &ldquo;but could no one else take your place with the band?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out,
      whispered, &ldquo;Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come and
      talk to him. He must not go.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I can stay, Senorita,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, gravely. &ldquo;I will stay so
      long as you need me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, Alessandro!&rdquo; Ramona cried. &ldquo;You are good, to stay. The
      Senora will see that it is no loss to you;&rdquo; and she flew back to the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not for the wages, Senorita,&rdquo; Alessandro began; but Ramona was
      gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of
      humiliation. &ldquo;I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money
      kept me,&rdquo; he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;I would not leave the
      band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, son. I understand that,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; replied Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That does he!&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only twice a year,&rdquo; replied Alessandro; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay! Ever for money!&rdquo; groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the
      latter part of the sentence. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if you could, Father,&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and Alessandro
      watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for words to convey
      his meaning. At last he said: &ldquo;Got your father any notice, at any time
      since the Americans took the country,&mdash;notice to appear before a
      court, or anything about a title to the land?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,&rdquo; continued
      the monk; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Father,&rdquo; persisted Alessandro, &ldquo;how could there be a law to take
      away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope not,&rdquo; replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what my father says,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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,'&rdquo; and he crossed himself devoutly,
      repeating the words twice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full
      of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on
      towards the shearing-shed he thought: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula.
      Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had
      grappled with the problem in one shape or another.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and ill-humor.
      The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning, and why were
      they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,&mdash;it was now
      near sunset,&mdash;with nothing to do, and still worse with not much of
      anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The economical
      Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and supposing they
      would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the
      day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her cue
      from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the family needed themselves;
      so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry day of it, in no wise
      alleviated either by the reports brought from time to time that their
      captain was lying on the ground, face down, under Senor Felipe's window,
      and must not be spoken to.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement of
      his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in few
      words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by setting
      them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place for the
      remainder of the season.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well!&rdquo; they said hotly; &ldquo;captain for this year, captain for next,
      too!&rdquo; It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the
      shearers!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;please yourselves! It is all the same to
      me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra
      wishes it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah, that alters the
      case!&rdquo; &ldquo;Alessandro is right!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;no doing anything
      without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the midsummer
      fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as the Senorita
      Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing except the
      Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had had a hundred
      engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he
      was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be confessed he was for a
      moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was a time, when, as he well
      knew, his father could not do without his help. There were sometimes a
      thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly whites took advantage of the
      occasion to sell whisky and encourage all sorts of license and
      disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty lay at Temecula when
      that fete came off. That was certain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will manage to be at home then,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If I am not through here by
      that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact, but
      one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only old
      man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys.
      Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged, two
      years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was
      getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the
      first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling away
      all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his blanket
      at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for these few
      remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office again. And
      Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they ought all to see
      that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend of
      theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the Temecula
      shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if they did not
      do all they could to help her in her need.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught and
      driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at full
      speed from the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo; cried Ramona, out of breath, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona
      spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial
      outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too ready
      to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega sheep-shearing
      had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's,&rdquo; he said to the men. &ldquo;You'll be
      late in, if you do not start now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Supper will be ready in an hour,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Please let them stay; one
      hour can't make any difference.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro smiled. &ldquo;It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are
      off,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you,
      Senorita, for thinking of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I did not think of it myself,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she added ruefully.
      &ldquo;It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything to eat; they had
      their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, &ldquo;but that is not long; one can do
      without food very well for one day. I often do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Often.&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona; &ldquo;but why should you do that?&rdquo; Then suddenly
      bethinking herself, she said in her heart, &ldquo;Oh, what a thoughtless
      question! Can it be they are so poor as that?&rdquo; And to save Alessandro from
      replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, &ldquo;Come, come,
      Margarita, we must go and help at the supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will the Senorita let me help, too,&rdquo; asked Alessandro, wondering at his
      own boldness,&mdash;&ldquo;if there is anything I can do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting, and
      laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and the shed.
      He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons, frying,
      pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently old Marda
      meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also
      heard and smelled what was going on. &ldquo;May the fiends get me,&rdquo; he growled,
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo; he called at
      top of his lungs; but Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her
      duties in the kitchen; and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of
      the good broth which the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must
      eat for two weeks, she had dismissed him from her mind for the night.
      Moreover, Margarita was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in
      love with the handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the
      year before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to
      her, evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed,
      when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, through
      which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor Felipe's
      illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, had perhaps
      put everything else out of his head; but now he was going to stay, and it
      would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe got well, which
      he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about, here, there, and
      everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing
      up and down in the dusk outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off at
      the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, &ldquo;I will call you when we are
      ready.&rdquo; But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run, Margarita,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in
      sight. Call him to come and take the things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called &ldquo;Alessandro!
      Alessandro! the supper is ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there
      holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so roused
      poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave it into
      Alessandro's hands, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's eyes,&mdash;a
      little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to making him
      drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than
      an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to set
      off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. &ldquo;Jose,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine,&rdquo; promptly replied Jose. &ldquo;Mine, by a great deal. I will run Antonio
      any day he likes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was
      learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little
      diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back.
      He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there
      was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of the
      fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for his
      messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his horse
      to its utmost speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, &ldquo;Will you go? I will pay
      you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; said Jose, elated. &ldquo;You will see me back tomorrow by
      sundown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not earlier?&rdquo; asked Alessandro. &ldquo;I thought by noon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, by noon be it, then,&rdquo; said Jose. &ldquo;The horse can do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have great care!&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will I,&rdquo; replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch
      with his knees, set off at full gallop westward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,&rdquo; said Alessandro, walking up
      to Fernando. &ldquo;He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the
      Ortega's the next morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Back here by noon to-morrow!&rdquo; exclaimed Fernando. &ldquo;Not unless he kills
      his horse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was what he said,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Easy enough, too!&rdquo; cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your horse really faster than Jose's?&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Then I wish I
      had sent you. I'll send you next time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into his
      place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough places
      became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old Juan Can
      had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the news of his
      staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for since his accident
      Juan had not been without fears that he might lose his place altogether;
      there was a Mexican he knew, who had long been scheming to get the
      situation, and had once openly boasted at a fandango, where he was dancing
      with Anita, that as soon as that superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was
      out of the way, he meant to be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself.
      To have seen this man in authority on the place, would have driven Juan
      out of his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,&mdash;and of course the Senora
      would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a
      position on the estate,&mdash;it was exactly as Juan would have wished;
      and he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in
      his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and
      explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro
      understood far better than he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis
      Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly
      as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither
      did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position of
      his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was an
      Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of
      Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's mind
      to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan had
      been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully
      trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite
      usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he
      would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents were
      different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be entirely
      on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew, of which
      Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others in which
      Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the things of the
      soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher of the two. Felipe
      was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but circumstances and
      opportunity would have a hold on him they could never get on Alessandro.
      Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro was by nature full of
      veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had been trained into being
      a good Catholic. But they were both singularly pure-minded, open-hearted,
      generous-souled young men, and destined, by the strange chance which had
      thus brought them into familiar relations, to become strongly attached to
      each other. After the day on which the madness of Felipe's fever had been
      so miraculously soothed and controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was
      never again wildly delirious. When he waked in the night from that first
      long sleep, he was, as Father Salvierderra had predicted, in his right
      mind; knew every one, and asked rational questions. But the over-heated
      and excited brain did not for some time wholly resume normal action. At
      intervals he wandered, especially when just arousing from sleep; and,
      strangely enough, it was always for Alessandro that he called at these
      times, and it seemed always to be music that he craved. He recollected
      Alessandro's having sung to him that first night. &ldquo;I was not so crazy as
      you all thought,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left, Alessandro,
      seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps, and said,
      &ldquo;Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the violin to him
      tonight?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, whose violin have you got?&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona, astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My own, Senorita.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sent to Temecula and back already!&rdquo; cried Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's eyes glistened. &ldquo;I wish I could have thanked him,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You
      should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I paid him, Senorita; he went for me,&rdquo; said Alessandro, with a shade of
      wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did
      not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would
      rather pay the messenger herself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear
      the violin, I will play;&rdquo; and Alessandro walked slowly away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no
      thought of his being an Indian,&mdash;a thought there had surely been no
      need of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's;
      but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she
      forgotten it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a superb head, and what a walk!&rdquo; she thought. Then, looking more
      observantly, she said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't he splendid, Senorita?&rdquo; came in a light laughing tone from
      Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their relation.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was
      suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to Ramona.
      Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had never
      before in her life used. &ldquo;It is not fitting to speak like that about young
      men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you,&rdquo; she said, and
      walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if she had got
      a box on the ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's. She
      had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly
      bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds,
      reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the
      harsh speech from her mind. &ldquo;Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita,&rdquo; she
      thought, &ldquo;to make her speak like that to me.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;forcing-house soil,
      and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona
      proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by his
      side, as she had sat for days and nights,&mdash;her dark face looking
      thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that
      could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Senora,&rdquo; whispered Ramona, &ldquo;do go out for a few moments while he
      sleeps, and let me watch,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora shook her head. &ldquo;My place is here,&rdquo; she answered, speaking in a
      dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished
      neither to give it nor take it. &ldquo;I shall not leave him. I do not need the
      air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now
      shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It
      was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near
      Felipe's head. &ldquo;He will like to see it when he wakes,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. &ldquo;Take it away!
      Flowers are poison when one is ill,&rdquo; she said coldly. &ldquo;Have I never told
      you that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at the
      saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's
      pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The musk is different,&rdquo; said the Senora, seeing the glance. &ldquo;Musk is a
      medicine; it revives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated
      musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his mother
      was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and the house
      would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her faint, with
      a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have confessed as
      much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought it all a
      fancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I stay?&rdquo; asked Ramona, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please,&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona entered
      the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to Felipe. If
      it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but her own do
      aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated her. &ldquo;What
      does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!&rdquo; thought the
      Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely forgetting how
      feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of love in the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one
      second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already
      occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died
      herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge was
      possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's mind. A
      revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her ears. So
      impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are forever held
      by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of our daily
      companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had
      dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send for Alessandro,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Let him come and sing to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,&rdquo; said
      Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the messenger's
      having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a day, to bring it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted to pay the man,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You couldn't have offended him more,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona, astonished. &ldquo;They all look as if they were
      poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well, so they are,&rdquo; replied Felipe, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How generous!&rdquo; warmly exclaimed Ramona; &ldquo;I think they are better than we
      are, Felipe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, too,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Felipe, you are talking too much,&rdquo; said the Senora's voice, in the
      doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she had
      said in words, &ldquo;See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No wonder
      I do not leave the room except when I must!&rdquo; her meaning could not have
      been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some misgiving that
      it was deserved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?&rdquo; she said timidly; and to the Senora,
      &ldquo;Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Tell him to bring
      his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few
      minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds,
      vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,&mdash;Ramona searched them all
      in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking
      down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by
      the washing-stones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can he be there?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What can he be doing there? Who is it with
      him?&rdquo; And she walked down the path, calling, &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion, and
      almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face to
      face with Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Ramona, &ldquo;he wishes to hear you. I have been looking
      everywhere for you.&rdquo; As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering
      beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the
      brook.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. &ldquo;It is
      Margarita,&rdquo; he said instantly. &ldquo;Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run
      and call her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew
      she was displeased; &ldquo;no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing
      there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is washing,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Washing at this time of day!&rdquo; thought Ramona, severely. &ldquo;A mere pretext.
      I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort of thing.&rdquo;
       And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side, she meditated
      whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the subject in the
      morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections not
      the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water, she
      said to herself, &ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;And the Senorita will perhaps
      marry Senor Felipe,&rdquo; she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; It was an innocent, girlish castle,
      built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or low,
      need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would
      presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never
      dreamed of.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business
      with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind that
      before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long talk with
      Alessandro. &ldquo;He was fond enough of me last year, I know,&rdquo; she said to
      herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night leave-takings at
      that time. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; said the confident Margarita, who, truth being told, it
      must be admitted, did indeed know a great deal about the way it is with
      men, and could be safely backed, in a fair field, with a fair start,
      against any girl of her age and station in the country. So much for
      Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day destined to be an eventful one
      in her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some
      reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's
      having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening, but
      would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther signs of
      her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection for
      Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's
      displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also
      aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect
      ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. &ldquo;And he is not
      really to blame,&rdquo; thought Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being
      concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and
      grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the
      phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day a
      demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs, things
      could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did; for it was
      not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at her embroidery
      in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro going with his
      pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at the east of the
      garden, and joining the almond orchard. &ldquo;I wonder what he is going to do
      there,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He can't be going to cut willows;&rdquo; and her eyes
      followed him till he disappeared among the trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the east
      window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. &ldquo;Now's my
      chance!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Ah, the Senora may have sent her
      to call Alessandro!&rdquo; She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, and
      looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, with her
      eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and looked
      inquiringly at Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know where Margarita is?&rdquo; said Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda,&rdquo;
       replied the Senora, in a whisper. &ldquo;I told her to help Marda with the
      peppers this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on her
      course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father Salvierderra's
      room, looked in. The room was still in disorder. Margarita had left her
      work there unfinished. The color deepened on Ramona's cheeks. It was
      strange how accurately she divined each process of the incident. &ldquo;She saw
      him from this window,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her
      chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will wait here till she comes back,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Margarita, you are wanted in the house!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;Ramona walking in advance, stately, silent, and
      Margarita following, sulky, abject in her gait, but with a raging
      whirlwind in her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the
      truth. Alessandro too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling
      through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old
      olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place. How
      could he ever look the Senorita in the face again!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perdition take that girl!&rdquo; he said over and over in his helpless despair.
      An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not deserved it.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen
      Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special harm,
      except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with him,&mdash;for
      she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone a little
      farther,&mdash;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,&mdash;for it was
      Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Did the Senorita want
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no harm,&rdquo; muttered Margarita, sullenly. &ldquo;I don't know what the
      Senorita means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know very well, Margarita,&rdquo; retorted Ramona. &ldquo;You know that the
      Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do.&rdquo; And
      with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her
      embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good
      Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's
      would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words which
      were being spoken on the veranda a little later.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate
      generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded
      himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the
      time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had
      just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner
      had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house,
      hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her time
      when not with Senor Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in her
      embroidery. She did not wish to look at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would
      not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not
      know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the
      consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and
      surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval of
      freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the passion
      of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the sun's rays.
      Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she sprang to her
      feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a long
      time to speak to her. I wished to say&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But she
      spoke not, only looked at him searchingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senorita,&rdquo; he began again, &ldquo;I would never be unfaithful to my duty to the
      Senora, and to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;It is not necessary to say
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not
      hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him. He
      felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people.
      &ldquo;It is well.&rdquo; And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked away.
      Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father Salvierderra's
      room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover to whom he was
      speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind a curtain, she saw
      the look with which he said them; saw also the expression on Ramona's face
      as she listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!&rdquo; said the girl, bitterly.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Much, indeed!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra
      had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with little
      apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was almost
      harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every day
      Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the only
      thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he would
      talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show for a few
      moments something like his old animation; but he was soon tired, and would
      close his eyes, saying: &ldquo;I will speak with you again about this,
      Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon came
      to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly liked
      his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's favor,
      for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved in demeanor. She
      had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent, self-contained,
      mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed Alessandro, the more
      she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how
      matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he would have been
      in a fever of apprehension, and would have got at swords' points with
      Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all unaware of the real situation
      of affairs, and never quite sure that the Mexican he dreaded might not any
      day hear of his misfortune, and appear, asking for the place, he took
      every opportunity to praise Alessandro to the Senora. She never visited
      his bedside that he had not something to say in favor of the lad, as he
      called him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, Senora,&rdquo; he said again and again, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I fancy not,&rdquo; the Senora would reply, absently. &ldquo;His father is a man
      of intelligence, and has trained his son well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing he is not ready to do,&rdquo; continued Alessandro's eulogist.
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;a good
      lad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and
      more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan had
      feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his
      temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working in
      the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this young,
      strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ. The
      possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would hesitate
      about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, did not
      occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty
      of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the young man
      more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the idea, and
      propose it.
    </p>
    <p>
      So one day she said to Felipe: &ldquo;What a voice that Alessandro has, Felipe.
      We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's not going!&rdquo; exclaimed Felipe, startled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true!&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Is it really a month already?&rdquo; and he sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of his
      years,&rdquo; continued the Senora. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old Pablo is just like him,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you
      will be well and strong,&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;you would not miss him then,
      would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I would, too!&rdquo; said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to
      be childish. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?&rdquo; asked the Senora, in a
      surprised tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it isn't that,&rdquo; said Felipe, impatiently. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
       added Felipe, laughing. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. &ldquo;No, I do not understand it,&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that these
      noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I shall think about it,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;I'd like nothing better than
      to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think about
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing
      Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but
      listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with Ramona,
      though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done this much,&mdash;that
      Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and
      that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any more than when she
      thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the
      two men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita had
      done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man of the two.
      This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not help it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,&rdquo; she said to herself
      many a time. &ldquo;I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder if the
      Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis
      money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips
      suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. She
      had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations
      between her and her son.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after his
      mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the point
      of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, &ldquo;What was it, Ramona,
      you were going to say just now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, Ramona,&rdquo; persisted Felipe. &ldquo;You were going to say something
      about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself
      embarrassed before Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you like Alessandro?&rdquo; said Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. &ldquo;It was not that at
      all. I like him very much;&rdquo; But then she stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his
      staying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no; not a word!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Felipe, inquiringly, &ldquo;I do not. Do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he would like to stay,&rdquo; said Ramona, hesitatingly. &ldquo;That was what
      I was going to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes you think so?&rdquo; asked Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see aught
      lacking, aught amiss?&rdquo; the Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with
      pride. And the Father, thus inquired of, could not point out a duty which
      had been neglected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not love her, my daughter,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo; Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. &ldquo;No, I do
      not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; the Father would say sadly; &ldquo;but affection may be
      cultivated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, if it exists,&rdquo; was the Senora's constant answer. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, &ldquo;Be cast into the sea,&rdquo; as
      try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of
      itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona the
      more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year, and
      small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath than
      this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in
      the Senora Moreno's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that fourth
      herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how should Ramona
      watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at school with the
      nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house. Felipe was the only
      young man she had known,&mdash;Felipe, her brother since she was five
      years old.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he needed
      them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went as often
      as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed to go to
      Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have asked the
      Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now infrequent
      journeys to these places would have required more courage than Ramona
      possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent school, but
      she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the day when, with
      loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few romances and tales
      and bits of verse she had read were of the most innocent and old-fashioned
      kind, and left her hardly less childlike than before. This childlikeness,
      combined with her happy temperament, had kept her singularly contented in
      her monotonous life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers,
      kept the chapel in order, helped in light household work, embroidered,
      sung, and, as the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said her
      prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra.
    </p>
    <p>
      By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept
      strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,&mdash;he by living
      in the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled
      with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light and
      easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro
      meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing
      or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him
      uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was
      never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the estate,
      and get it, lad,&rdquo; replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening in
      Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would it not be the Senorita?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. &ldquo;Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say
      that!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;Margarita has said to me that the Senorita Ramona
      was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foster-child!&rdquo; repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have seen
      that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his words more
      carefully. But he went on: &ldquo;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.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word &ldquo;Indian&rdquo; have
      bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than
      before, and said in a low voice, &ldquo;How know you it was the mother that was
      the Indian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juan laughed again, maliciously: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that the
      child was?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each moment now;
      stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip, that he noticed
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay. So I said,&rdquo; he went on; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has she not treated her kindly?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, in a husky voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juan Can's pride resented this question. &ldquo;Do you suppose the Senora Moreno
      would do an unkindness to one under her roof?&rdquo; he asked loftily. &ldquo;The
      Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself. It was
      so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does the Senorita know all this?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juan Can crossed himself. &ldquo;Saints save us, no!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;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!'&mdash;And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it,
      Alessandro, now?&rdquo; said the old man, anxiously. &ldquo;My tongue runs away with
      me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,&mdash;an active man
      like me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured,&rdquo; said Alessandro, walking
      away slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here! Here!&rdquo; called Juan. &ldquo;What about that plan you had for making a bed
      for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I had forgotten,&rdquo; said Alessandro, returning. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself,&rdquo; said Juan. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, Juan Canito,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, kindly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?&rdquo; thought Juan;
      but he answered, &ldquo;It is not so with us. The old are not held in such
      reverence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not well,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay!&rdquo; said Juan, sadly. &ldquo;We must all come to it. It is beginning to
      look not so far off to me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious revelation
      of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been at his. &ldquo;Faith,
      old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!&rdquo; he thought; but went on
      with the topic of the raw-hide bed. &ldquo;I may not so soon get speech with
      Senor Felipe,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask the Senorita, then,&rdquo; said Juan. &ldquo;She has his ear at all times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,&mdash;this
      suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He
      could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will speak to the Senora,&rdquo; he said; and as luck would have it, at that
      moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan Can's
      health.
    </p>
    <p>
      The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself had,
      in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she
      said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. &ldquo;I once lay
      down on one myself, Senora,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a pile of raw-hides,&rdquo; said Juan, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fresher the better,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;so it have no dampness. Shall
      I make the bed, Senora?&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor of
      fresh air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Night and day both?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Surely it is not well to sleep out in the
      night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the best of all, Senora,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, earnestly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, only mistaken,&rdquo; said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly
      drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe. &ldquo;When
      I die and leave Felipe here,&rdquo; she had more than once said to herself, &ldquo;it
      would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this on the place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Alessandro,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;make the bed, and we will try it at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west, when
      Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw Alessandro
      coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can that be?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Some new invention of Alessandro's, but for
      what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita,&rdquo; said Alessandro, running lightly
      up the steps. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe that is the truth, Alessandro,&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Senorita?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Ramona had no answer, except, &ldquo;I do not know; I have always heard so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My people do not think so,&rdquo; replied Alessandro; &ldquo;unless it is cold, we
      like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think it would be,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;I never thought of it. I
      should like to do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in a
      sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona would
      have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than the one she
      had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with Margarita. All
      day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain a confused
      procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words, they would have
      been found to be little more than ringing changes on this idea: &ldquo;The
      Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Senorita Ramona is
      alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian blood!&rdquo; These, or
      something like them, would have been the words; but Alessandro did not put
      them in words. He only worked away on the rough posts for Senor Felipe's
      bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the raw-hide and made it tight and
      firm, driving every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of
      exultant strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven
      and a new earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, &ldquo;It
      must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;a
      vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up
      to them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, &ldquo;The bed is all ready on the
      veranda,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression of
      gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive
      nature far worse than anger. &ldquo;I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the
      change, Ramona,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it? What is it?&rdquo; exclaimed Felipe, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to be
      moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's just what I needed!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he went on, seeing
      Alessandro in the doorway. &ldquo;Come here, and take me up in those long arms
      of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light
      burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than
      Alessandro to lift.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets.
      As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her
      hands, saying, &ldquo;I will arrange them myself;&rdquo; and waved Ramona away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would
      have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were
      not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears at
      the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked swiftly
      away, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but too
      well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his
      weakness, was, &ldquo;Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he
      stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up,
      half afraid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?&rdquo; he said smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not your weight, Senor Felipe,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, off guard,
      still trembling, his eyes following Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met.
      Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at
      Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head
      sink back into the pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that comfortable? Is that right?&rdquo; asked the Senora, who had seen
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;Stay,
      Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has
      shaken me up a good deal. Wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are to stay, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the Senora, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senora,&rdquo; said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had
      been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant. In
      fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind whether
      there could be any possibility of his getting away before the expiration
      of the time for which he had agreed to stay.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he
      was asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some
      minutes. &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did
      not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had
      seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro was
      preparing for anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing
      expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood
      the surprise. &ldquo;I knew you would be surprised,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I told my mother
      that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only because we
      were in trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave
      him pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you would be willing to take it?&rdquo; asked Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it,&rdquo; replied Alessandro,
      looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's pause,
      &ldquo;if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a pleasure
      to me to be of help to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning
      over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service
      immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse of
      passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden
      consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro
      was not mistaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep,
      Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his
      breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the
      same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to
      Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can go now, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;I will sit here. You are
      quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will cure him before many nights,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, still without
      raising his eyes, and turning to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; said the Senora. Alessandro paused. &ldquo;It will not do for him to be
      alone here in the night, Alessandro.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on the
      veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the
      Senorita's window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I will lie here by his side. That was what I
      had thought, if the Senora is willing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Alessandro,&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no.&rdquo; cried Alessandro; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; thought the Senora; &ldquo;what was I thinking of! How the boy
      makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the ground,
      Alessandro,&rdquo; she said kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will watch him myself till midnight,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;I should feel
      easier to see how he sleeps at first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing
      were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and
      on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from her
      window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him
      spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take her
      place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were both
      going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit up and
      watch with Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not of any use to anybody,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;ah, how far away those
      former times looked now!&mdash;had been a greater comfort to Ramona than
      she realized,&mdash;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, &ldquo;She hates
      me; She has always hated me since that morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window
      leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up and
      down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in any
      wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved her.
      More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go. Her mind was
      not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in intercourse with
      men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro loved her, and
      distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she was, as she sat at
      her window this night, looking out into the moonlit garden; after she had
      gone to bed, she could still hear his slow, regular steps on the
      garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was that
      she was glad Alessandro loved her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines,
      were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in
      her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low,
      regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to it
      for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the
      window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; but
      it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; without a
      sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am here, Senorita,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;Do you want anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he slept all night like this?&rdquo; she whispered back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How good!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;How good!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear him
      speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she could not,
      she gave a little sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. &ldquo;May the saints bless
      you, Senorita,&rdquo; he whispered fervently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Alessandro,&rdquo; murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed, but
      not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light
      filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe,&rdquo; thought Ramona;
      and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words between the
      Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed again, and all
      was still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought she would not have the heart to wake him,&rdquo; said Ramona to
      herself. &ldquo;The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure;
      but I will say a prayer to her instead;&rdquo; and she sank on her knees at the
      head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall of a
      spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the ear of
      that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose from the
      floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness was so far
      softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen. Ramona felt
      it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was sure he had
      heard her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did the Senorita speak?&rdquo; he whispered, his face close at the curtain.
      Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the
      wooden floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I did not speak.&rdquo; And she trembled, she
      knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to Alessandro
      what had been the whispered words he heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was at her prayers,&rdquo; he thought, ashamed and sorry. &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; he
      whispered, &ldquo;I thought you called;&rdquo; and he stepped back to the outer edge
      of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie down no
      more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window. Through the
      transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly, steadily, till
      at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful of all else, she
      knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Ramona would
      not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart was full of thanksgiving
      and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the book.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the
      veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The Senora
      had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but he stirred
      not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro only long
      enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding
      her breath, he lay so still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ought he to sleep so long?&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Till the noon, it may be,&rdquo; answered Alessandro; &ldquo;and when he wakes, you
      will see by his eye that he is another man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed outright
      with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the steps, he
      called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; he called, as Alessandro ran toward the kitchen. &ldquo;Bring
      all they have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright, his
      color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self, she stood
      like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then turning to
      Alessandro, she said chokingly, &ldquo;May Heaven reward you!&rdquo; and disappeared
      abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes were red. All day
      she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed inconceivable. She
      even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She felt like one
      brought back from the dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on the
      veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The servants
      came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk below.
      Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches Alessandro had
      made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way round the house,
      to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The Senora sat there,
      in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her black silk banded
      head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her large dark eyes
      gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona lived there too,
      with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on the floor in a
      corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed, however,&mdash;if
      anybody had noticed, but nobody did,&mdash;so placed that she could look
      at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if the Senora
      were not in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here also came Alessandro many times a day,&mdash;sometimes sent for,
      sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or sang
      he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden. He also
      had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the positions he
      chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot which best
      commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own. Felipe knew
      it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell exploding at
      their feet would not have more astonished the different members of this
      circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would to have been made
      suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in Felipe's mind now,
      from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when
      the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and that
      Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled with
      jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he was
      prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die; it did
      not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and ever again
      be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of his own death,
      always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of her, if he were
      gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would be broken; that
      she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe adored his mother; but
      he understood her feeling about Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in long
      illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to puzzle
      him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into his eyes
      meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him, had always
      loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a little at
      himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet, mournful
      tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going out of the
      world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new quality was
      coming into his love for her. He himself was returning to the brother love
      which he had had for her when they were children together, and in which he
      had felt no change until he became a man and Ramona a woman. It was
      strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this was finally clear and
      settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more misgiving and fear about his
      mother in the matter than he had ever admitted to himself; perhaps also
      the consciousness of Ramona's unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but
      all this was past now. Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What
      course should he pursue in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could
      he best help Ramona? What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long
      before the thought of any possible union between himself and Ramona had
      entered into Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into
      Ramona's to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in
      forecasting, plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his
      life he felt himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That
      any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence
      her, he knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was
      concerned, Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless
      beggar, and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the
      adopted daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had
      lived as foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit
      such a one to marry an Indian?
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more he
      watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be decided.
      Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for forestalling
      trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature indolent, and
      now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. It was
      exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him; his
      mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was
      always at hand, ready for any service,&mdash;in the field, in the house,&mdash;his
      music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his personal presence
      always agreeable. &ldquo;If only my mother could think it,&rdquo; reflected Felipe,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the
      valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes filled
      and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied vines.
      The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but there were
      lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and geraniums in
      the pots, and musk,&mdash;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,&mdash;the butterflies also; and the air
      was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the season's noon
      grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches and the canaries
      too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly feeding the
      mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their thickest; no need
      any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up that first morning
      to keep the sun off Felipe's head.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot as this?
      &ldquo;To-morrow,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;I will speak to my mother,&rdquo; and &ldquo;to-morrow,&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;to-morrow;&rdquo; but he did not.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe
      knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about
      her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the
      watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge was
      going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be as it
      fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come she
      never doubted.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening to
      Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his ease
      and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger was
      almost beyond bounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!&rdquo; she sneered. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; And she knew not which she hated the
      more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken to
      Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At first
      Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her. As soon
      as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in the esteem
      of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. &ldquo;A man should not be rude
      to any maiden,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Let him go to his
      Senorita,&rdquo; she said bitterly, mocking the reverential tone in which she
      had overheard him pronounce the word. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of
      Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more or
      less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any one of
      the shepherds,&mdash;this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry
      imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro.
      There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of such
      a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that idea
      would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to
      Margarita.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not
      know. The girl was always like a sprite,&mdash;here, there, everywhere, in
      an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all
      sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved
      swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of
      any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and
      Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had
      not either seen or surmised.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not strange
      that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved untiring
      vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought himself, from his
      vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from his familiar relation
      with Ramona, well informed of most that happened, would have been
      astonished to hear all that Margarita could have told him. In the first
      days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him much,&mdash;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: &ldquo;Oh, Senorita, they are dead! Do not take
      trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;&rdquo; and the next morning she
      had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of such ferns as she had never
      before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes, six and eight feet high; the
      feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as
      she ever had found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a conservatory,
      after she had arranged them in vases and around the high candlesticks.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all of
      the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the
      cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think it
      prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made wreaths
      of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers which
      ever were made,&mdash;great soft round disks of fine straight threads like
      silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff points,
      glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the strangest thing
      in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay there on the ground.
      She had put a great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and a bunch
      in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora saw them, she exclaimed in
      admiration, and thought they must have been made of silk and satin.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian women
      at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare country;
      it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,&mdash;red and yellow, in
      alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a
      bright-colored bird.
    </p>
    <p>
      And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black, that
      came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got it.
      For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed that there
      was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and
      good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that Alessandro had said,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Never mind, never mind,&rdquo; said
      the Father; &ldquo;I will make it whole;&rdquo; and taking the two pieces in his
      hands, he held them tight together, and prayed over them, and they became
      one solid piece again, and it was used all through the journey, just as
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's
      sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief
      replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another
      thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to others
      she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she looked quickly
      up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance. Alessandro also
      observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He knew how
      differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when they were
      alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he was mistaken.
      Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows by
      the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened, it
      was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went often
      seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not avowed,
      but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him there, at
      least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a pleasant spot,&mdash;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: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined
      sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it,
      thinking to herself: &ldquo;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!&rdquo; And the more Margarita watched, the more she
      thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was oftener at the
      willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro met; and, as
      Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked each time
      longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it had happened
      to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on the garden-walk,
      had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be ordered to call the
      Senorita to supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      X
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's
      most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It was
      the Senora herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his
      chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, the
      Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of long,
      lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants, that
      there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had not seen.
      She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose in walking over
      it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she could afford to
      sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they greatly desired to
      buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This bit of land lay
      farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it had taken more
      time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was already sunset
      on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned off from the highway
      into the same shortcut path in which Father Salvierderra had met Ramona in
      the spring. There was no difficulty now in getting through the mustard
      tangle. It was parched and dry, and had been trampled by cattle. The
      Senora walked rapidly, but it was dusky twilight when she reached the
      willows; so dusky that she saw nothing&mdash;and she stepped so lightly on
      the smooth brown path that she made no sound&mdash;until suddenly, face to
      face with a man and a woman standing locked in each other's arms, she
      halted, stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same
      second, recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart,
      each gazing into her face with terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had
      stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; she began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence! Shameful creature!&rdquo; cried the Senora. &ldquo;Do not dare to speak! Go
      to your room!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona did not move.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for you,&rdquo; the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, &ldquo;you,&rdquo;&mdash;she
      was about to say, &ldquo;You are discharged from my service from this hour,&rdquo; but
      recollecting herself in time, said,&mdash;&ldquo;you will answer to Senor
      Felipe. Out of my sight!&rdquo; And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in her
      life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. &ldquo;Out of my
      sight!&rdquo; she repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring
      look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no idea
      what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in
      the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had
      walked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her
      own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A
      wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of
      her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; the Senora did a
      shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak not to me!&rdquo; she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she pushed
      rather than dragged her up the garden-walk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora, you hurt my arm,&rdquo; said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. &ldquo;You
      need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and stared
      in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it an
      expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would have
      thought it capable. &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; thought the Senora, still weak,
      and trembling all over, from rage. &ldquo;The hussy, the hypocrite!&rdquo; and she
      seized the arm again.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like a
      prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and locked
      on the outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona and
      Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with impatience
      at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had gone to Felipe,
      and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the
      Senorita would not have their supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, not till the Senora returns,&rdquo; Felipe had answered. He, too,
      happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew also
      where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he did not
      know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of the willows
      at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to summon
      Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling
      Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's
      pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch.
      Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona
      had helped her in times gone by,&mdash;sheltered her from the Senora's
      displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. &ldquo;Holy Virgin! what will
      be done to her now?&rdquo; 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,&mdash;this was all
      Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora looked
      as if she might kill her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She always did hate her, in her heart,&rdquo; reflected Margarita; &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and Margarita's jealousy again got the better of her
      sympathy. &ldquo;Good enough for her. No more than she deserved. An honest
      fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any girl!&rdquo;
       Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's view
      and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from above,
      and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they were both
      equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a disgraceful
      intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of conjecturing or
      of believing the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      As ill luck would have it,&mdash;or was it good luck?&mdash;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,&mdash;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: &ldquo;Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come on
      them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Felipe, dear, are you ill?&rdquo; he
      replied in a feeble voice, &ldquo;No, mother, only tired a little to-night;&rdquo; and
      as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw his arms around her neck
      and kissed her warmly. &ldquo;Mother mia!&rdquo; he said passionately, &ldquo;what should I
      do without you?&rdquo; The caress, the loving words, acted like oil on the
      troubled waters. They restored the Senora as nothing else could. What
      mattered anything, so long as she had her adoring and adorable son! And
      she would not speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this disgraceful
      and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could wait till morning. She would
      send him his supper in his room, and he would not miss Ramona, perhaps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will send your supper here, Felipe,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you must not overdo;
      you have been walking too much. Lie still.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper into
      his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,&rdquo; Margarita
      was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she, or
      had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, shaking and
      speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her room, and lock her
      up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at the
      Senora, with her mouth wide open.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you staring at, girl?&rdquo; asked the Senora, so sharply that
      Margarita jumped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to supper?
      Shall I call her?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora Moreno
      was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no matter what
      she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should treat her with
      disrespect, or know that aught was wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Senorita is not well,&rdquo; she said coldly. &ldquo;She is in her room. I myself
      will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb her.&rdquo;
       And the Senora returned to Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had
      spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those
      two short hours how much had happened!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon,&rdquo; said the
      bitter Margarita, &ldquo;and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how
      he will carry himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen.
      The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock, and
      no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the places
      where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro was not to be
      found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he thought he was
      discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace,
      and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium clump at the
      chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees drawn up to his chin,
      watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night. He felt
      that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, she would either open her
      window and call, or would come out and go down through the garden-walk to
      the willows. In either case, he would see her from the hiding-place he had
      chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad with joy one minute, sick at
      heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She
      had said she would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but
      just passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared in
      their presence. As he lived the scene over again, he re-experienced the
      joy and the terror equally.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look at
      him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the
      Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing for
      her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's mind,
      that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as she did,
      in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona? Could she
      live in a house such as he must live in,&mdash;live as the Temecula women
      lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some town,
      must do&mdash;he knew not what&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who
      had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a
      Moreno!
    </p>
    <p>
      Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his friend,
      Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's instinct
      for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora? Oh, that
      terrible Senora! What would become of them?
    </p>
    <p>
      As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the
      whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's
      love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act
      of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which she
      had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the time of
      Felipe's fall, &ldquo;You are Alessandro, are you not?&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;I know
      you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;and for him hers
      was an empire.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have
      believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken between
      Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first moment of
      unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first caresses, are
      so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at the instant, than
      there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. Alessandro had been
      speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard
      to remaining on the place, and asked her if she knew of the plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some
      days ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was she against my staying?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;but I am not sure. It is not easy to be sure
      what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the
      Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand, Senorita,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;What do you mean by
      'afterward'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; replied Ramona, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She loves Senor Felipe very much,&rdquo; was Alessandro's evasive reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona. &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at Alessandro, who
      smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that the Senorita was
      pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the Senora's regard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think she likes me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Ramona, thoughtfully. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running water
      at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in Alessandro's
      eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would have drawn
      near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did not look up.
      She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senorita, never,&rdquo; replied Alessandro; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but I am not always unhappy!&rdquo; said Ramona, with her sunny little
      laugh. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Then, her face clouding, she
      continued: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to
      him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to
      cry out, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; But he dared not. How could he dare?
    </p>
    <p>
      Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night. She
      had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or
      burdens; but she went on: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never seemed
      so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were to tell
      her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to him, or repel
      her?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you never asked her again?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona looked up astonished. &ldquo;No one ever disobeyed the Senora,&rdquo; she said
      quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may think so,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;but you couldn't. When you tried, you
      would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did he say?&rdquo; asked Alessandro, breathless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the
      time came, I would be told,&rdquo; answered Ramona, sadly. &ldquo;I don't see what
      they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita,&rdquo; replied
      Alessandro. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure they do,&rdquo; answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words were
      wrung from her. &ldquo;But let us talk about something else, Alessandro; not
      about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your staying
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?&rdquo; said
      Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know it would,&rdquo; answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her
      voice, which Alessandro felt. &ldquo;I do not see what we could any of us do
      without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's face glowed. &ldquo;It must be as my father says, Senorita,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Is it a large town?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro sighed. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many people are there in the village?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor
      people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indians?&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona colored. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the trouble,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her.
      Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and
      personal matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but these are real troubles,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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&mdash;love, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe the
      hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters,
      all of my father's people,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and I am unhappy about them all the
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of
      thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said
      about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held to
      Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared his
      father would not let him remain away from home for any length of time. At
      the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking a sudden
      step towards him, she said abruptly, &ldquo;Alessandro, I am afraid your father
      will not give his consent to your staying here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So am I, Senorita,&rdquo; he replied sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I, Senorita?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it would not be right;&rdquo; but as she said these words, the
      tears filled her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. &ldquo;Senorita! Senorita
      Ramona!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita, then you
      will not be angry if I say that I love you!&rdquo; and Alessandro trembled with
      the terror and delight of having said the words.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the
      words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,&mdash;&ldquo;I know
      that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!&rdquo; Yes, this was what the
      Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, &ldquo;But you, Senorita, you
      do not&mdash;you could not&mdash;&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I do&mdash;I love
      you!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you are
      mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!&rdquo; But he was kissing
      her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I
      do mean it; I will go with you,&rdquo; clung to him with her hands, and kissed
      him, and repeated it, &ldquo;I will go with you, I love you.&rdquo; And then, just
      then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry of amazement, and there
      she stood, no more than an arm's-length away, looking at them with her
      indignant, terrible eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he
      crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions
      did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened for
      sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness
      deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in the
      Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room, soon
      put out,&mdash;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,&mdash;the Senora's and
      Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her window;
      it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. Where was
      she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution and
      infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going to her
      window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own responsibility.
      He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his love made a sign.
      Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his veranda bed, and then
      he could venture to speak to him. But it was near midnight when the door
      of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother came out, still speaking in
      low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his mother, bending over, kissed
      him, bade him good-night, and went into her own room.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the
      veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. But
      Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised when, a few
      minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice through the
      vines, &ldquo;Senor Felipe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, Alessandro,&rdquo; whispered Felipe. &ldquo;Do not make a sound. To-morrow
      morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not safe
      to talk here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the Senorita?&rdquo; Alessandro breathed rather than said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In her room,&rdquo; answered Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;the notes of two wood-doves,
      that at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the
      call and the answer, &ldquo;Love?&rdquo; &ldquo;Here.&rdquo; &ldquo;Love?&rdquo; &ldquo;Here,&rdquo;&mdash;and long
      intervals of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing
      they told.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what my Ramona is like,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;the gentle wood-dove. If
      she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XI
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After
      closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about Ramona.
      It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the evening with
      Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind. But Felipe was
      still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his night's rest, she
      thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover, she was not clear in
      her own mind what she wished to have done about Alessandro. If Ramona were
      to be sent away to the nuns, which was the only thing the Senora could
      think of as yet, there would be no reason for discharging Alessandro. And
      with him the Senora was by no means ready to part, though in her first
      anger she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As she pursued her
      reflections, the whole situation cleared itself in her mind; so easily do
      affairs fall into line, in the plottings and plannings of an arbitrary
      person, who makes in his formula no allowance for a human element which he
      cannot control.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a servant
      there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands of her
      forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect her any longer
      to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her sister's written
      instructions had provided for the possibility of just such a contingency.
      Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a life-size statue of Saint
      Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box, battered and rusty with age,
      and set it on the bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. It was
      many years since the Senora had opened this box. No one but herself knew
      of its existence. There had been many times in the history of the Moreno
      house when the price of the contents of that box would have averted loss
      and misfortune; but the Senora no more thought of touching the treasure
      than if it had been guarded by angels with fiery swords. There they lay,
      brilliant and shining even in the dim light of the one candle,&mdash;rubies,
      emeralds, pearls, and yellow diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she
      looked at them. &ldquo;Fine dowry, truly, for a creature like this!&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; &ldquo;To be
      given to my adopted daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,&rdquo;&mdash;so
      the instructions ran,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves
      unworthy,&rdquo; thought the Senora, bitterly; &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Unworthy!&rdquo; Yes, that was a mild word
      to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once
      out of the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would
      lead their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day. Was there a
      woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But he must wed; and
      the place would be gay with children's voices, and Ramona would be
      forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora did not know how late it was. &ldquo;I will tell her to-night,&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which
      made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her to
      go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them to the
      room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she opened
      the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle high up;
      no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It was
      open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. &ldquo;She has run off with
      Alessandro,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;What horrible disgrace.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;She won't dare to hurt me at
      the Virgin's feet,&rdquo; she had said; &ldquo;and the window is open. Felipe would
      hear if I called; and Alessandro will watch.&rdquo; And with a prayer on her
      lips she fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from
      being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments looking
      at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful suspicions,
      she noted what she had never before thought of, that Alessandro, through
      all his watching with Felipe, had had close access to Ramona's window.
      &ldquo;Shameful creature!&rdquo; she repeated to herself. &ldquo;And she can sleep! It is
      well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!&rdquo; and she turned away, first
      setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a table. Then, with a sudden
      and still more curious mingling of justness in her wrath, she returned,
      and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over Ramona, covering her
      carefully from head to foot. Then she went out and again locked the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. &ldquo;Thank
      God, the poor child is asleep!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and my poor dear mother feared
      to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;even Margarita delayed not to unite; and Felipe, too,
      sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded and melodious
      as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of being all full
      of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of them all who was
      not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro most of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The saints be praised,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;There is my wood-dove's voice.
      She can sing!&rdquo; And, &ldquo;Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I am glad
      he loves me,&rdquo; said Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To hear those two voices.&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;would one suppose they could
      sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where
      Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to
      Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread and
      milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's own
      hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the previous
      evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out; and Ramona
      knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be known to
      none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants to
      gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very hungry.
      Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down to wait.
      For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much try. Ramona
      had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule. She felt
      little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going away
      presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom lay in
      the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born emotions
      was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, and
      slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the room.
      This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it had done
      before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed to her
      like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the whole tone
      and manner of her address.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room, she
      said, in a tone scornful and insulting, &ldquo;What have you to say for
      yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the
      same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to stay
      the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; she said slowly, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and Ramona looked wistfully, with no
      shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say
      these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the first
      sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed, followed
      a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much scorn, but a
      bitterer anger. &ldquo;Marry! Marry that Indian!&rdquo; she cried, as soon as she
      found voice. &ldquo;You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I will never permit
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona looked anxiously at her. &ldquo;I have never disobeyed you, Senora,&rdquo; she
      said, &ldquo;but this is different from all other things; you are not my mother.
      I have promised to marry Alessandro.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said icily, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise and
      cost, of what stuff this girl was made,&mdash;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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And with her young lithe arms
      straight down at her sides, her head thrown back, Ramona flashed full in
      the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. It was the first free moment
      her soul had ever known. She felt herself buoyed up as by wings in air.
      Her old terror of the Senora fell from her like a garment thrown off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her
      wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, &ldquo;you talk like a
      fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow, if
      I choose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you cannot!&rdquo; replied Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, then, is to hinder me.&rdquo; said the Senora, insolently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; answered Ramona, proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; the Senora sneered. &ldquo;Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on
      whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. &ldquo;You would never dare!&rdquo;
       she cried; &ldquo;Felipe would not permit it!&rdquo; A most unwise retort for Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mistaken, Senora,&rdquo; answered Ramona, more gently. &ldquo;Felipe is
      Alessandro's friend, and&mdash;mine,&rdquo; she added, after a second's pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of Moreno!&rdquo;
       cried the Senora. &ldquo;We will see! we will see! Follow me, Senorita Ramona!&rdquo;
       And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out, looking back over her
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Follow me!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;the
      Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual
      gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes bent
      on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita, standing
      just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would help the Senora against me in anything,&rdquo; thought Ramona; and
      she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had not
      stirred.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the
      curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every
      movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down in that chair,&rdquo; said the Senora, pointing to one near the
      fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would rather stand, Senora,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do as I bid you.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;The
      Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she did a few moments back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her, in
      this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror had
      got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her face, took
      hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half around, brought
      into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the keyhole, which
      she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had read of persons
      who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and starved to death.
      With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all unaware of her terror,
      was prolonging it and intensifying it by her every act. First she took out
      the small iron box, and set it on a table. Then, kneeling, she drew out
      from an inner recess in the closet a large leather-covered box, and pulled
      it, grating and scraping along the floor, till it stood in front of
      Ramona. All this time she spoke no word, and the cruel expression of her
      countenance deepened each moment. The fiends had possession of the Senora
      Moreno this morning, and no mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might
      have indeed been fearful, at being locked up alone with a woman who looked
      like that.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place.
      Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into the wall
      closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old battered
      boxes. What could it all mean?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senorita Ramona Ortegna,&rdquo; began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and
      seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, &ldquo;I will now
      explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,&mdash;not her old
      self, her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his
      name, even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away.
      She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was
      young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap
      through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno,&rdquo; she said, in a tone
      as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, &ldquo;Do not interrupt me
      again. I have much to tell you;&rdquo; and opening the box, she lifted out and
      placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written paper
      lay at the bottom of the box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?&rdquo; she asked, holding it up. Ramona
      bowed her head. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while the
      Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder, fear of
      her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth, swept over
      her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she listened. She
      forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her eyes never left the
      Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the Senora said sternly, &ldquo;You
      see, now, that my sister left to me the entire disposition of everything
      belonging to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it hasn't said who was my mother,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Is that all there
      is in the paper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing
      that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her
      forever?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was your mother?&rdquo; she exclaimed, scornfully, &ldquo;There was no need to
      write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the word &ldquo;Indian,&rdquo; Ramona gave a low cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora misunderstood it. &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. &ldquo;Yes, Senora Moreno,&rdquo; she
      said, springing to her feet; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you,&rdquo; interrupted the
      Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; The words poured like
      a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer and closer to
      the Senora. &ldquo;You are a cruel woman,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora
      answered: &ldquo;I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is
      still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He married her, then?&rdquo; asked Ramona, with emphasis. &ldquo;How know you that,
      Senora Moreno?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told my sister so,&rdquo; replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the
      girl even this much of consolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was his name?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Phail; Angus Phail,&rdquo; the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found
      herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she
      chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew how.
      Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of the one in
      authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate question after
      question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened it. With
      unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many years had
      rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, gowns of
      satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the chairs, it
      was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's eyes rested on
      them dreamily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did my adopted mother wear all these?&rdquo; she asked, lifting in her hand a
      fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the
      value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if you
      marry worthily, with my permission,&rdquo; said the Senora, in a voice a shade
      less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. &ldquo;Did you understand what I
      read you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson
      silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the
      jewel-box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are pearls in that,&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;that came with the things
      your father sent to my sister when he died.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was
      old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the
      last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. &ldquo;This was my father's,
      then.&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;They were your father's, and all these
      rubies, and these yellow diamonds;&rdquo; and she pushed the tray towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully above
      the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance came from
      the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right and left,
      making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their snowy
      whiteness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will keep this handkerchief,&rdquo; she said, thrusting it as she spoke, by a
      swift resolute movement into her bosom. &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had thrust
      the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust, There
      could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under which she
      had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the fact that she
      had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself what Father
      Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis. Her religion and
      the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from her in her sudden
      wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that she became conscious
      of this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father Salvierderra?&rdquo; she stammered; &ldquo;he has nothing to do with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and followed
      up her advantage. &ldquo;Father Salvierderra has to do with everything,&rdquo; she
      said boldly. &ldquo;He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid me to marry him, and
      if he did&mdash;&rdquo; Ramona stopped. She also was smitten with a sudden
      terror at the vista opening before her,&mdash;of a disobedience to Father
      Salvierderra.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if he did,&rdquo; repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, &ldquo;would you
      disobey him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say,&rdquo; retorted the Senora,
      sarcastically, &ldquo;that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any
      commands on you, to be thus disobeyed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other
      of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she loved
      the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His
      displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His would
      give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clasping her hands, she said, &ldquo;Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that to
      the Father!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family,&rdquo;
       answered the Senora, chillingly. &ldquo;He will agree with me, that if you
      persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I
      shall tell him all;&rdquo; and she began putting the trays back in the box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not tell him as it really is, Senora,&rdquo; persisted Ramona. &ldquo;I will
      tell him myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall not see him! I will take care of that!&rdquo; cried the Senora, so
      vindictively that Ramona shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will give you one more chance,&rdquo; said the Senora, pausing in the act of
      folding up one of the damask gowns. &ldquo;Will you obey me? Will you promise to
      have nothing more to do with this Indian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never, Senora,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the consequences be on your own head,&rdquo; cried the Senora. &ldquo;Go to your
      room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe. Do you
      hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona bowed her head. &ldquo;I hear,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XII
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that
      southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to
      Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a
      terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom, was
      wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had selected
      it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she
      halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she
      entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of some
      one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the path to
      the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute for a
      moment, gazing earnestly down this path. &ldquo;If the saints would only tell me
      where he is!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Oh, Felipe,
      Felipe!&rdquo; she began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear, I know it all,&rdquo; interrupted Felipe; &ldquo;Alessandro has told me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;but I could not
      bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother forbade you to speak to me!&rdquo; cried Felipe, in a tone of terror.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Felipe,&rdquo; began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know! I know!&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; sobbed Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe's face was horror-stricken. &ldquo;Shut you in the convent!&rdquo; he gasped.
      &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the
      terrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she go
      back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again,
      meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro?
      Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when she
      entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless weeping.
      If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's journey on
      his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from her each
      moment, she would have despaired indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him to
      do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's face
      and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe was
      alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not
      conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked
      with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be out
      of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. &ldquo;I will say
      that I sent you,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not
      need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be
      foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be
      out of the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is for
      her sake I go?&rdquo; the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's eyes
      as if he would read his inmost soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will,&rdquo; replied Felipe; and he held his hand
      out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. &ldquo;You may trust me to do all I
      can do for Ramona and for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless you, Senor Felipe,&rdquo; answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight
      trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's a noble fellow,&rdquo; said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro
      leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all night,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever
      arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming now. He
      was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted whether he
      could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in the convent
      terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had she power to do
      that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she had, or she would not
      have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the cruel injustice
      of the idea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I'd
      help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can make my
      mother feel so!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Good heavens! dinner already!&rdquo; he
      cried, springing to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen him
      talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down the river
      road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look, and Ramona's, as
      they passed the dining-room door together soon after breakfast. Margarita
      could have given a tolerably connected account of all that had happened
      within the last twenty-four hours to the chief actors in this tragedy
      which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to know
      anything, she yet knew nearly all; and her every pulse was beating high
      with excited conjecture and wonder as to what would come next.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Ramona has spoken to him. When and how did
      she do it?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Felipe would
      not let you!&rdquo; What had Felipe done or said to make the girl so sure that
      he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it come to this, that she,
      the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own house by children and
      servants!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as she
      rose from the dinner-table, &ldquo;My son, I would like to have some
      conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, mother,&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, madre mia,&rdquo; replied Felipe, &ldquo;indeed I do not. I see not that you have
      changed in the last ten years.&rdquo; And he was honest in this. His eyes did
      not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of reasons. The
      face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled by emotion,
      transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and she looked keenly at
      Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where poor Ramona had
      swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing before her, gazing,
      with a tender expression, upon her features, but saying nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see that Ramona has told you all!&rdquo; she continued, her voice hardening
      as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this
      morning, early,&rdquo; Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the
      conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she
      asked, &ldquo;And what did he say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told me all that had happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All!&rdquo; said the Senora, sneeringly. &ldquo;Do you suppose that he told you all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight,&rdquo; said Felipe,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so
      promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the
      relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming?
      In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he did
      not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure that
      retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any good to
      Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the first glimpse
      of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, &ldquo;Ah, dear mother, if
      that could only be done, all would be well;&rdquo; and, never noting the
      expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, he poured out
      all he thought and felt on the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears like a
      voice from some other world,&mdash;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,&mdash;a habit of hers
      when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes now,
      fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not all his
      filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as scornful
      as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you look at me like that, mother?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What have I
      done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora waved her hand imperiously. &ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; she reiterated. &ldquo;Do not
      say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;&rdquo; and she fixed her eyes
      on the floor again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than he
      had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for the
      first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl like
      Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor little one!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;If my mother looked at her as she did at
      me just now, I wonder she did not die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona was
      uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the cause,
      or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time in his
      whole life, angered her beyond her control.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature,&rdquo; she thought
      bitterly to herself, &ldquo;without her coming between me and Felipe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh
      lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the
      rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate
      anger at his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe to
      see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said in
      trembling tones: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A bitter
      shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him tender;
      and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied: &ldquo;I do not
      see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing wrong in her
      loving Alessandro.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I found her in his arms!&rdquo; exclaimed the Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; retorted the Senora; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, mother! mother!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he repeated, in a
      tone which spoke volumes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would,
      mother,&rdquo; said Felipe courageously; &ldquo;you do him injustice.&rdquo; He longed to
      add, &ldquo;And Ramona too,&rdquo; but he feared to make bad matters worse by pleading
      for her at present.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I do not,&rdquo; said the Senora; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely
      this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood,
      and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself
      around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear her
      thus wickedly accused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him in
      sudden astonishment. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Again an exclamation from the Senora, this time
      more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe pressed on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; Here Felipe paused. He had made his
      charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at the
      onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,&mdash;and
      even yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined
      his constitution,&mdash;the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said
      in a now composed tone: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been
      speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her
      power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do.
      Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing
      could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards her;
      or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she
      arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her
      imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would be
      no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he determined
      the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate crisis.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than
      the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her
      wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been for
      a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook. How just
      and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly, with an
      expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. &ldquo;Would you be
      willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give but
      one answer to this question. &ldquo;No, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I should not; but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind buts,&rdquo; interrupted his mother; &ldquo;we have not got to those yet;&rdquo;
       and she smiled on Felipe,&mdash;an affectionate smile, but it somehow gave
      him a feeling of dread. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. &ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait, dear!&rdquo; exclaimed his mother. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; It was here that the Senora had perceived some things that
      it would be out of her power to do. &ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;You surely would not
      think that right, my son, would you?&rdquo; And now the Senora waited for an
      answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, mother,&rdquo; came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. &ldquo;I suppose not; but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sure my own son could make no other reply,&rdquo; interrupted the Senora.
      She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to her questions.
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe said,
      in a low tone, &ldquo;No, I suppose she would not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mother,&rdquo; said the unhappy Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw
      somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out; in
      fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was confused.
      Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all had been said
      and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was evident that it
      would never be with his mother's consent. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable,
      and tired with the perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora continued: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's it, mother! That's it!&rdquo; broke in Felipe. &ldquo;You see, you see it is
      too late now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo; The Senora artfully
      interpolated, &ldquo;What should you think, Felipe, of having her go back to the
      Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly
      gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke
      again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had cried
      to him in the garden, &ldquo;Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the
      convent, will you?&rdquo; &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;you would never do that. You
      would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. &ldquo;Who spoke of shutting
      up?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo; And
      a third time the Senora paused for an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing in
      life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when, withdrawing
      a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still supposes himself
      free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim flutter. Subtle
      questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as settled, much which
      had never been settled at all, were among the best weapons in the Senora's
      armory. They rarely failed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Advise!&rdquo; cried Felipe, excitedly. &ldquo;Advise! This is what I advise&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,&rdquo; interrupted the Senora,
      sighing. &ldquo;I don't quite see how you would face it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't propose to face it,&rdquo; continued Felipe, testily. &ldquo;I don't
      propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go
      away with him, if she wants to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without our consent?&rdquo; said the Senora, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?&rdquo;
       asked the Senora, earnestly. &ldquo;Run away and marry him, spite of our
      refusing to consent to the marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's just what I do think, mother,&rdquo; replied Felipe, his heart growing
      lighter at her words. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;They could
      not stay here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see why!&rdquo; said Felipe, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe's eyes fell. &ldquo;Then I suppose they couldn't be married here,
      either,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily approved
      of, my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, mother;&rdquo; and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. &ldquo;But then we
      force them to run away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no.&rdquo; said the Senora, icily. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed his
      friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication,
      network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did not
      see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother; he
      did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to Alessandro
      and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora studied his face. &ldquo;You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,&rdquo; she
      said tenderly. &ldquo;As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate state of
      affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Felipe, bitterly. &ldquo;I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just
      turning Ramona out of the house, that's all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Felipe! Felipe!&rdquo; exclaimed the Senora, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and tears stood in the Senora's
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me, dear mother,&rdquo; cried the unhappy Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,&rdquo; replied the Senora. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew
      not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way, unlocked
      Ramona's door, and said: &ldquo;Ramona, be so good as to come to my room. Felipe
      and I have something to say to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, &ldquo;Felipe and I,&rdquo; boded no good.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,&rdquo; thought
      Ramona. &ldquo;Oh, what will become of me!&rdquo; and she stole a reproachful,
      imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her; but
      the reassurance did not last long.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senorita Ramona Ortegna,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;as the Senora might speak to an intruding
      stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senorita Ramona Ortegna,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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&mdash;or you ought to know&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no sound
      came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with downcast
      eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face, despair seized
      her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro!
      Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,&mdash;a cry that cut Felipe to
      the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of Ramona's
      suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he had realized.
      It would have taken very little, at such moments as these, to have made
      Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her side, folding
      his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It took all the
      self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust to Ramona's
      understanding him later.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's
      sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the
      Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl was
      beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and her
      perceptions were sharpened by love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you anything to say to me or to my son?&rdquo; asked the Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senora,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;I do not think of anything more to say than
      I said this morning. Yes,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she continued,
      turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up affection and
      sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,&mdash;&ldquo;you too, dear Felipe. You
      have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as long as I
      live;&rdquo; and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took them in his,
      and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted him. She did not
      intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between
      her son and Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Is
      it your purpose to go at once?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know, Senora,&rdquo; stammered Ramona; &ldquo;I have not seen Alessandro; I
      have not heard&mdash;&rdquo; And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who
      answered compassionately,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro has gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone!&rdquo; shrieked Ramona. &ldquo;Gone! not gone, Felipe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only for four days,&rdquo; replied Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo; cried Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He went because my son told him to go,&rdquo; broke in the Senora, impatient of
      this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's expressive
      features. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe,
      and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the
      streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, &ldquo;You have
      been cruel; God will punish you!&rdquo; and without waiting to see what effect
      her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she walked
      swiftly out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said the Senora, &ldquo;you see she defies us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is desperate,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;I am sorry I sent Alessandro away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my son,&rdquo; replied the Senora, &ldquo;you were wise, as you always are. It
      may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in solitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?&rdquo; cried Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said the baffled Felipe; &ldquo;that was what I said. But, mother&mdash;&rdquo;
       He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to say
      or do?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you are going to do, mother?&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;I don't seem to
      understand what you are going to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would be
      thrown away. I shall do nothing,&rdquo; replied the Senora. &ldquo;Nothing whatever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always has
      been?&rdquo; said Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora smiled sadly. &ldquo;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,&mdash;we can't feel exactly the same towards her as we
      did before, can we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe made an impatient gesture. &ldquo;No, of course not. But I mean, is
      everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I supposed so,&rdquo; said the Senora. &ldquo;Was not that your idea? We must try to
      have it so, I think. Do not you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; groaned Felipe, &ldquo;if we can!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter
      of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation
      with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from the
      thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the convent,
      Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna jewels turned
      into the treasury of the Church,&mdash;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,&mdash;well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; that
      should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora was,
      she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question wholly into
      her own hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He
      had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in
      sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be
      sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not
      impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so,
      she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest.
      Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret
      from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's
      death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her adopted
      child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father came
      again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. The
      treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all these
      fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went away
      with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply stating
      the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further questions must
      wait for decision until they met.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her tireless
      weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial failure of
      her plans.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It has
      an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,&mdash;a system so ingenious
      that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still find some
      booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at reprisals is
      its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes vanity a
      thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off
      the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its
      banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in
      another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second
      field than in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on
      till death. It is impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration for
      this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are to all who come in their
      way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, when pride demands the
      sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the earth,
      when all other motives have died out of men's breasts; has won many a
      crown, which has not been called by its true name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of the
      future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture
      soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual occupations
      also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do &ldquo;nothing&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;nothing;&rdquo; 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,&mdash;barring this, he would have liked
      to have Alessandro marry Ramona and remain on the place. All this would
      come uppermost in Felipe's mind again when he was removed from the
      pressure of her influence. Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with
      him on the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would
      be best attained by taking and keeping the ground that the question of
      their non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic
      should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await
      Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to
      inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now.
    </p>
    <p>
      The details of the &ldquo;nothing&rdquo; 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,&mdash;the Senora grew
      almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated this
      contingency,&mdash;if she did thus humble herself and return to her
      rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her, and
      would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would take her
      to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more of the world;
      and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come about for her a
      satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see that she was not
      disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if Ramona herself would
      behave properly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper,
      and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was
      drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it
      both in her voice and look.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done
      so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the
      turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to Ramona
      a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought; but
      before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's eye
      and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The emotion of
      half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words changed
      quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and she said to
      herself: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; This train of thought in
      Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and hardened
      herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of surrender. Very
      well. The girl had made her choice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had
      overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and
      Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion
      as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped being
      caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the
      passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out, after her
      final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had distinctly
      heard: &ldquo;God will punish you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;How comes it
      you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of the day, Margarita?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick
      lie which she instantaneously told. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She
      changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering
      about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the
      sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as he
      rode past,&mdash;only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he
      had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had at
      Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been
      Margarita's motive for telling this lie?
    </p>
    <p>
      But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long
      with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing
      which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the
      Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there was
      added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of
      jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants of
      late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to his
      being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music, there
      was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and went as a
      physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should this freedom
      and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen mutterings of
      this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers and servants were
      gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being absent from the
      group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming from the south
      veranda, where the family sat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,&rdquo; Juan
      Canito would grumble; &ldquo;but the lad's chary enough of his bow on this side
      the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!&rdquo; Margarita would reply;
      &ldquo;'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!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;nursed them, cheered them,
      remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days. To no one but her
      mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what she suspected; and
      old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such words, had terrified
      Margarita into the solemnest of promises never, under any circumstances
      whatever, to say such things to any other member of the family. Marda did
      not believe them. She could not. She believed that Margarita's jealousy
      had imagined all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had just
      dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into her
      room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her with
      Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in sheer
      mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed Margarita's
      ears for telling her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Oh, my lamb, what is it?&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;You'll have to look after things yourself for a few days,
      Juan. Alessandro has gone to Temecula.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For a few days!&rdquo; exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was
      repeated to her. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard, as
      she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, &ldquo;Are you
      ready for supper, Ramona?&rdquo; and Ramona was seen to come out and walk by the
      Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,&mdash;but then that
      was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the Senora's
      presence,&mdash;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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all coming
      in as usual,&mdash;the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,&mdash;no change, even to
      her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had
      been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than once
      since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she
      remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its
      complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results
      attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure put
      upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison
      in matter of blindness,&mdash;&ldquo;blind as a bat,&rdquo; for instance. It would be
      safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any
      other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection,
      as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms of their
      families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and heal, strength
      falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether, every day,
      without being noted by the closest lookers-on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a
      storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed
      the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and reasoner
      than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any serious disaster
      could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual
      fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in the veranda, dozing.
      The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to
      every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with her hands
      folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied herself with her
      usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers before all the
      Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had been for a long
      time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel. It was to have
      been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she held up the frame
      in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate tracery of the
      pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling of interest and
      hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it, often saying to
      herself, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; But as she thought these
      things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had settled on Ramona.
      &ldquo;Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything for four days!&rdquo; these
      words were coming and going in her mind like refrains of songs which haunt
      one's memory and will not be still. She saw that Felipe looked anxiously
      at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always with a gentle smile.
      It was evident that the Senora did not intend that she and Felipe should
      have any private conversation; but that did not so much matter. After all,
      there was not so much to be said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him
      nothing; Felipe had acted for the best, as he thought, in sending
      Alessandro away till the heat of the Senora's anger should have spent
      itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone, had
      passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come back
      prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know; but she
      would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the Senora
      good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far
      Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It was
      a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way: no
      wedding&mdash;no wedding clothes&mdash;no friends&mdash;to go unmarried,
      and journey to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; &ldquo;but it
      is not my fault,&rdquo; said Ramona to herself; &ldquo;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.&rdquo; The more Ramona thought of this, the
      more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. &ldquo;He will be on
      our side, I know he will,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He always liked Alessandro, and
      he loves me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's
      mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too full
      of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's habit to
      dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up she had
      accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now she accepted
      her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of things, and not to
      be altered.
    </p>
    <p>
      During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds of
      fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that there
      was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting on the
      veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was deceived by
      her calmness, and wondered what it meant,&mdash;if it could be that she
      was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible, and
      designated as coming &ldquo;to her senses.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;not of single huge rods, or bars, which
      would be stronger, perhaps, to look at, but of myriads of the finest
      wires, each one by itself so fine, so frail, it would barely hold a
      child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, hundreds of thousands of such,
      twisted, re-twisted together, are made the mighty cables, which do not any
      more swerve from their place in the air, under the weight and jar of the
      ceaseless traffic and tread of two cities, than the solid earth swerves
      under the same ceaseless weight and jar. Such cables do not break.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved
      Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden
      adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply a
      response; but now it was as strong a love as his,&mdash;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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Alessandro, my people are your people!&rdquo;
       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, &ldquo;But I
      too am an Indian, Alessandro!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat with
      happiness as she dreamed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word
      had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the
      Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel a
      thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought
      this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona.
      She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that he
      had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have been
      disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning or
      expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest, of
      which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through her
      window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with
      wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance to
      hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed make
      bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first sound
      of his footsteps on the veranda floor, &ldquo;My son, are you ill? Can I do
      anything?&rdquo; came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at all.
      It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan again;
      and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with sheer
      impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the bed,
      taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The Senora
      sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It was very hot;
      a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been blowing all day,
      and every living creature was more or less prostrated by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking out a
      memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly writing.
      Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her that it was
      for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was asleep.
      Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his hand, rose,
      and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly watching him; the
      sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat up instantly, and gazed
      about her with that indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope
      they have not been asleep, but know they have. &ldquo;Have I been asleep?&rdquo; she
      asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About one minute, mother,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;This heat is
      intolerable!&rdquo; Then he sauntered leisurely down the veranda steps into the
      garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench under the trellis there.
    </p>
    <p>
      The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with
      fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the Senora
      were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But fortune
      is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing off
      again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona. As
      soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora opened her
      eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was going into
      the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to your room, Ramona?&rdquo; said the Senor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was,&rdquo; replied Ramona, alarmed. &ldquo;Did you want me here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Ramona,&rdquo; Felipe had written, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her bosom,
      to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing that the
      Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply to Felipe,
      though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to him, there was
      no telling. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
       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,&mdash;a step whose significance could
      scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and small, are apt to overlook
      such possibilities as this; to forget the momentousness which the most
      trivial incident may assume when forced into false proportions and
      relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats out of the honestest souls.
      It is done oftener than any except close students of human nature realize.
      When kings and emperors do this, the world cries out with sympathy, and
      holds the plotters more innocent than the tyrant who provoked the plot. It
      is Russia that stands branded in men's thoughts, and not Siberia.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was
      living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how
      little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever
      felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and
      this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and
      hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had. All
      day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what
      Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on the
      previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have made the
      journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that there might
      be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He would doubtless
      return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case that proved the only
      alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as his fancy dwelt on the
      picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the Temecula village. He knew
      its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was monstrous, To the indolent,
      ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a girl reared as Ramona had
      been, could for a moment contemplate leading the life of a poor laboring
      man's wife. He could not conceive of love's making one undertake any such
      life. Felipe had much to learn of love. Night came; no Alessandro. Till
      the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, watching the willows. When she
      could no longer see, she listened. The Senora, noting all, also listened.
      She was uneasy as to the next stage of affairs, but she would not speak.
      Nothing should induce her to swerve from the line of conduct on which she
      had determined. It was the full of the moon. When the first broad beam of
      its light came over the hill, and flooded the garden and the white front
      of the little chapel, just as it had done on that first night when
      Alessandro watched with Felipe on the veranda, Ramona pressed her face
      against the window-panes, and gazed out into the garden. At each
      flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the form of a man approaching.
      Again and again she saw it. Again and again the breeze died, and the
      shadow ceased. It was near morning before, weary, sad, she crept to bed;
      but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious eyes, she still watched and
      listened. Never had the thought once crossed her mind that Alessandro
      might not come at the time Felipe had said. In her childlike simplicity
      she had accepted this as unquestioningly as she had accepted other facts
      in her life. Now that he did not come, unreasoning and unfounded terror
      took possession of her, and she asked herself continually, &ldquo;Will he ever
      come! They sent him away; perhaps he will be too proud to come back!&rdquo; Then
      faith would return, and saying to herself, &ldquo;He would never, never forsake
      me; he knows I have no one in the whole world but him; he knows how I love
      him,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now
      since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand,
      and said: &ldquo;You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she
      understands why I go; and in four days I will be back.&rdquo; One week, and he
      had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly
      into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken
      possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh days
      she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he would
      be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out to the
      highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the distance,&mdash;the
      cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back after dark, whiter and
      more wan than she went out. As she sat at the supper-table, silent, making
      no feint of eating, only drinking glass after glass of milk, in thirsty
      haste, even Margarita pitied her. But the Senora did not. She thought the
      best thing which could happen, would be that the Indian should never come
      back. Ramona would recover from it in a little while; the mortification
      would be the worst thing, but even that, time would heal. She wondered
      that the girl had not more pride than to let her wretchedness be so
      plainly seen. She herself would have died before she would go about with
      such a woe-begone face, for a whole household to see and gossip about.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as he
      was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and saw
      them; but Ramona did not care. &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I must, I must speak
      to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him from
      coming?&rdquo; Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. A few
      more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe thought, as
      he looked compassionately at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;A thousand things
      might have kept him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;I know he is
      dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words. Looking
      toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been within
      sight or hearing, the Senora said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There were
      several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the place
      was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs, emptying
      the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in a long shed.
      In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it took one man to
      watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons of his own he
      liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer tread grapes in
      the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work at the still. &ldquo;No
      ill but has its good,&rdquo; he thought sometimes, as he lay comfortably
      stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day, and breathing
      the fumes of the fiery brandy.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to Felipe,
      and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone, nodding her
      head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: &ldquo;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?&rdquo; There was almost a
      diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora could, by a single phrase
      or question, plant in a person's mind the precise idea she wished him to
      think he had originated himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; of course we can't send for him,&rdquo; replied Felipe, angrily; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place,&rdquo; said the
      Senora, gently, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of what kind do they die, mother?&rdquo; asked Felipe, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Senora looked reproachfully at him. &ldquo;Not often of any,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing an
      abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for the moment
      felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a disgraceful
      thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not be gainsaid
      that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was undeniably
      Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external matters of
      life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro was no man's
      inferior in these; and in capacity to love,&mdash;Felipe sometimes
      wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. This
      thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he had,
      unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at Ramona.
      But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present dilemma,
      in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send a
      messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had been an
      accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that! Ramona ought
      to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And when Felipe,
      later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. He said it as
      gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first comprehend his
      idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith, how could she?
    </p>
    <p>
      When she did understand, she said slowly: &ldquo;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?&rdquo; and she fixed her
      eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;something like that, though you put it
      harshly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not true,&rdquo; she persisted, &ldquo;that is what you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still more
      slowly, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and after this she did not speak again of Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if Ramona
      would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost even the
      Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted face, as
      she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the
      willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would never
      hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to Father
      Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old man,
      could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she could
      surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not many roads;
      she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had been so terrible
      to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had threatened her with it,
      now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter she craved. There was a
      school for orphans attached to the convent at San Juan Bautista, she knew;
      she would ask the Father to let her go there, and she would spend the rest
      of her life in prayer, and in teaching the orphan girls. As hour after
      hour she sat revolving this plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly
      into the future, that she lived years of her life. She felt herself
      middle-aged, old. She saw the procession of nuns, going to vespers,
      leading the children by the hand; herself wrinkled and white-haired,
      walking between two of the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As
      soon as she grew a little stronger, she would set off on her journey to
      the Father; she could not go just yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled
      if she did but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there
      could be no doubt of that. He was buried in that little walled graveyard
      of which he had told her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there
      and see his grave, perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of
      her, the old man would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work
      might lie there, among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had
      not courage for it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,&mdash;the sound
      of the Church's prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent
      was the best.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for
      she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river
      road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not go;
      her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora, who
      asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: &ldquo;No, Senora, I do not think
      I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better
      to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will send you strong broth and a medicine,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Oh,
      Senorita! Senorita!&rdquo; she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, &ldquo;are you
      going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I do not know why you ask me to
      forgive you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of weeping.
      &ldquo;Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I know nothing,&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;but if you know anything, it is all
      forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senorita!&rdquo; whispered Margarita,&mdash;thinking in her heart, &ldquo;Yes,
      she is going away, but it will be with the angels.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;No, Senorita, I
      will not tell. I will do anything you want me to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, Margarita mia,&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;I thought you would;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,&mdash;hardly since that day;&rdquo; and
      Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to further
      define the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,&rdquo; continued
      Margarita.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The saints grant it, then,&rdquo; said Marda, hotly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could tell what it is,&rdquo; said Margarita, her old pertness coming
      uppermost for a moment; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the wiser, older Marda. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm young!&rdquo; retorted Margarita. &ldquo;I've never been that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl,&rdquo; said Marda,
      significantly; &ldquo;and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb
      when I was your age!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child of
      hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's
      father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were
      perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and
      daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough
      to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly
      leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and
      ill-founded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do,&rdquo; thought Margarita. &ldquo;I
      know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me; never,&mdash;not
      till after she's gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on
      the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were
      not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to go!
      No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone with
      him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover ever
      wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the
      thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having had
      it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet so
      strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion were
      to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been deeply in
      love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and she remembered
      him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of displeasure at the
      recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now that the Senorita seemed
      to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no room for anything but pity
      for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage again, and all would be
      changed. The old hostility would return. It was but a dubious sort of
      ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly secured in Margarita. She
      might prove the sharpest of broken reeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona
      had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself began
      to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of all
      thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed
      torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced
      rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over crises,
      strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be slain.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Ramona lay half unconscious,&mdash;neither awake nor yet asleep,&mdash;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&mdash;half alarmed&mdash;half glad&mdash;bewildered&mdash;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. &ldquo;Alessandro is not dead!&rdquo; she said aloud; and she
      laughed hysterically. &ldquo;He is not dead!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;He is not dead! He
      is somewhere near!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After the
      first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not tremble;
      her feet trod firm on the ground. &ldquo;Oh, miracle!&rdquo; she thought, as she
      hastened down the garden-walk; &ldquo;I am well again! Alessandro is near!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Not here!&rdquo;
       she cried; &ldquo;not here!&rdquo; and a swift fear shook her. &ldquo;Am I mad? Is it this
      way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as I have been!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this was
      no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a
      revelation. Alessandro was near.
    </p>
    <p>
      Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener
      grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present
      mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that
      she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter of
      a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing, leaning
      against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be Alessandro. He would
      not have paused for a moment so near the house where he was to find her.
      She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet a stranger in this lonely
      spot. The figure was strangely still; so still that, as she peered through
      the dusk, she half fancied it might be an optical illusion. She advanced a
      few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped. As she did so, the man advanced a
      few steps, then stopped. As he came out from the shadows of the trees, she
      saw that he was of Alessandro's height. She quickened her steps, then
      suddenly stopped again. What did this mean? It could not be Alessandro.
      Ramona wrung her hands in agony of suspense. An almost unconquerable
      instinct urged her forward; but terror held her back. After standing
      irresolute for some minutes, she turned to walk back to the house, saying,
      &ldquo;I must not run the risk of its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he
      will come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower
      and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had
      returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the
      tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be a messenger from him,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;a messenger who has been told
      not to come to the house until after dark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments more
      brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was&mdash;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:
      &ldquo;Alessandro&mdash;&rdquo; 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! &ldquo;O God,&rdquo; cried Ramona, &ldquo;You
      have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to
      collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes fixed
      on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both her
      hands in his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senorita,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;my Senorita!&rdquo; Then he stopped. His tongue seemed to
      refuse him utterance; and this voice,&mdash;this strange, hard, unresonant
      voice,&mdash;whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Senorita,&rdquo; he began again, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean? Her
      look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens, Senorita!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;have you not heard? Do you not know what
      has happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know nothing, love,&rdquo; answered Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms around
      her again. As she said &ldquo;love,&rdquo; his whole frame shook with emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Senorita!&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How shall
      I tell you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is there to tell, Alessandro?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am afraid of nothing,
      now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining her
      closer to his breast, he cried: &ldquo;Dearest Senorita! I feel as if I should
      die when I tell you,&mdash;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!&rdquo; As he spoke the
      last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against the tree, added: &ldquo;I
      am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its look
      of incredulous horror. He misread it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only came to look at you once more,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting it
      now, she said, &ldquo;Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead,
      Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought that the news about our village must have reached you,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; lowering his voice and speaking almost sullenly&mdash;&ldquo;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;&rdquo; and he groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Was there a battle? Was your father killed?&rdquo; She was
      trembling with horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Alessandro. &ldquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Alessandro,&rdquo; interrupted Ramona, &ldquo;I can't understand. Who was it
      made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know who they are,&rdquo; Alessandro replied, his voice full of anger
      and scorn. &ldquo;They're Americans&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!&rdquo; cried
      Alessandro. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love,
      in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like
      this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't weep, Senorita,&rdquo; said Alessandro, drearily. &ldquo;Tears kill one, and do
      no good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long did your father live?&rdquo; asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer
      around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona, yearning
      over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one to be
      sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if he had
      been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his enfeebled and
      benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received these caresses,
      which once would have made him beside himself with joy. He leaned against
      her breast as a child might.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; Alessandro said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Took your horse!&rdquo; cried Ramona, aghast. &ldquo;Is that the law, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Temecula?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Temecula.&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their property!&rdquo; ejaculated Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; it is theirs,&rdquo; said Alessandro, doggedly. &ldquo;That is the law. They've
      got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always said,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a law of thieves!&rdquo; cried Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and of murderers too,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not
      share. Tell me about Jose,&rdquo; cried Ramona, breathlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;died right in his own door, carrying out some
      of the things; and after Carmena&mdash;that's his wife's name&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Pachanga?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No water!&rdquo; cried Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did they bury Jose?&rdquo; gasped Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Temecula,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;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;&rdquo; 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,&mdash;to go with Alessandro;
      nothing was apparently farther from his thoughts than this. Could she
      offer to go? Should she risk laying a burden on him greater than he could
      bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as he said, would his life be hindered
      or helped by her? She felt herself strong and able. Work had no terrors
      for her; privations she knew nothing of, but she felt no fear of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; she said, in a tone which startled him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Senorita!&rdquo; he said tenderly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have never once called me Ramona.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot, Senorita!&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'&rdquo; he added faintly; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she laid
      both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said:
      &ldquo;Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to
      your people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's silence astonished her. &ldquo;You are surprised,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
      thought you would be glad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I knew
      it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;And you never told me, Alessandro!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I?&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juan Canito!&rdquo; said Ramona, musingly. &ldquo;How could he have known?&rdquo; Then in a
      few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her. &ldquo;Is
      that what Juan Can said?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All except the father's name,&rdquo; stammered Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who did he say was my father?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It matters not,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you have, my Senorita,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, tenderly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you not glad, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my Senorita.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without
      premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what she
      was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: &ldquo;Oh,
      Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than
      have you leave me again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XV
    </h2>
    <p>
      ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of his
      arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost pain;
      she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak. Then,
      letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on his forehead
      reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and trembling she
      could barely understand his words: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking of
      her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather than
      speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter Ramona. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share his
      lot. &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; she interrupted, &ldquo;there are many men among your people
      who have wives, are there not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita!&rdquo; replied Alessandro, wonderingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has
      come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senorita.&rdquo; still more wonderingly; &ldquo;how could they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make
      them happier, are they not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita.&rdquo; Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended.
      It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed
      in her lines of interrogation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much, Senorita.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Do you think any one
      of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done. Were
      not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not enough to
      make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know there is not one!&rdquo; said Ramona, impetuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it is too much!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly. Then,
      drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out breathless: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?&rdquo;
       said Ramona. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful
      Senorita in the convent! No, no!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, greatly agitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out
      to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do as
      she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was conquered. &ldquo;I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,&rdquo; he
      said gravely,&mdash;no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was
      hollow; &ldquo;I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you, even
      if they have forsaken me and my people!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn
      silence for a moment, as if registering a vow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any
      woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, &ldquo;Then
      you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my
      Ramona,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;My God! what shall I do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro
      wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the
      Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. &ldquo;You do not
      know the Senora, Alessandro,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would never let her harm you,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;Neither would Senor
      Felipe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,&rdquo; answered
      Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to wait
      for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to embrace
      him again. &ldquo;Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir from this
      place till I come,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be here when you come,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will not be more than two hours,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;or three, at the utmost.
      It must be nine o'clock now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave
      the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something
      to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her
      innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she
      had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey. As
      Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had pictured
      himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's
      matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen short days
      ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up and seen
      Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the wind, the
      overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of a steam-engine,
      and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved her, had not spared
      the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had uttered a cry, and flinging
      himself off, came with a bound to his side, and with gasps between his
      words told him. Alessandro could not remember the words, only that after
      them he set his teeth, and dropping the bridle, laid his head down between
      Benito's ears, and whispered to him; and Benito never stopped, but
      galloped on all that day, till he came into Temecula; and there Alessandro
      saw the roofless houses, and the wagons being loaded, and the people
      running about, the women and children wailing; and then they showed him
      the place where his father lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping
      off Benito he let him go, and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only
      eighteen days ago! And now here he was, under the willows,&mdash;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,&mdash;where! He had
      no home in the wide world to which to take her,&mdash;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,&mdash;out and in without rousing them. If
      only Baba would not give a loud whinny. leaning on the corral-fence,
      Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible whistle. The horses were all in a
      group together at the farther end of the corral. At the sound there was a
      slight movement in the group; and one of them turned and came a pace or
      two toward Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe that is Baba himself,&rdquo; thought Alessandro; and he made another
      low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he suspected
      some mischief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baba,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any dog;
      knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed
      instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution.
      If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little
      more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the
      fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and
      giving soft whinnying sighs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! hush! Baba,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a
      human being. &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper
      rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as soon
      as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still by
      Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself, spite
      of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning as to
      how Baba had managed to get out of the corral.
    </p>
    <p>
      This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro had
      hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get the
      saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things hung on
      pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in Southern
      California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate, as any
      Signal Service Report could be,&mdash;a floor and a roof; no walls, only
      corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large scale
      are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The longer he
      thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Good Baba, stay here till
      the Senorita comes.&rdquo; Baba whinnied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!&rdquo; thought
      Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He felt
      strong now,&mdash;felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy
      thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses
      had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the
      ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn,
      several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his adventure;
      every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept
      a few paces more. As he neared the corner where Ramona's saddle always
      hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, Luigo slept on the barn
      floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Groping in the darkness,
      Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt for the saddle, found it,
      lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the ground again, drawing the saddle
      along after him. Not a sound had he made, that the most watchful of
      sheep-dogs could hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!&rdquo; said Alessandro to
      himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and,
      springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. It
      was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for the
      rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in comfort.
      To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba would carry
      them both, and never know it; and it might come to that, Alessandro
      thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was stretched
      out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in scornful
      wonder at this strange new associate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The saints be praised!&rdquo; thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to wait.
      &ldquo;This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be
      best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek a
      new home?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay each
      plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to San Diego,
      to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard ride; five
      for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on the ways Ah!
      Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel would
      give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro remembered his own
      violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay in its case on a
      table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it possible? No, of
      course it could not be possible that the Senorita would think to bring it.
      What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro was sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more
      and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, the
      darkness dense. &ldquo;It must have been the saints, too, that brought me on a
      night when there was no moon,&rdquo; he thought; and then he said again, devout
      and simple-minded man that he was. &ldquo;They mean to protect my Senorita; they
      will let me take care of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had
      reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her,
      Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had
      given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she had
      not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have known
      that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have watched
      to see what it meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda,
      sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not
      late.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her
      windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's
      feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and
      prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where
      to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know she will! I am sure she will!&rdquo; whispered Ramona to herself as she
      rose from her knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe
      should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she
      wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago, when
      she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two of
      the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of
      burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and are
      strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are gathered
      at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the forehead. In
      these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease, heavier loads
      than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona recollected these, she
      had been perplexed to know how she should carry the things which she had
      made up her mind it would be right for her to take,&mdash;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. &ldquo;I will tell Father Salvierderra exactly what I took,&rdquo;
       she thought, &ldquo;and ask him if it was too much.&rdquo; She did not like to think
      that all these clothes she must take had been paid for with the Senora
      Moreno's money.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What would
      life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los Angeles,
      he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had devised
      several ways by which they could both earn money.
    </p>
    <p>
      There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too;
      wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt he
      looked. &ldquo;Starving,&rdquo; he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And she had
      sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good food thrown
      to the dogs to eat.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that before
      Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona dared feel
      sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was dark; it was
      past midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The violin first!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;like a true Indian woman as I am,&rdquo; she
      said, almost gayly, to herself,&mdash;through the court-yard, around the
      southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows, where
      she laid down her load, and went back for the second.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold meat.
      She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's possessions
      as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made several journeys
      to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her store. Wine,
      luckily, she found in the dining-room,&mdash;two full bottles; also milk,
      which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall in the
      veranda.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's
      breathing. &ldquo;How can I go without bidding him good-by?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How can
      I?&rdquo; and she stood irresolute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light would hardly
      be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the dining-room, knelt
      on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR FELIPE,&mdash;Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him
      to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't
      know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love you
      always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;RAMONA.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into her
      room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house. From her
      window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she stretched out her
      arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just over Felipe's feet.
      There was a risk that the Senora would come out in the morning, before
      Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk she would take.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell, dear Felipe!&rdquo; she whispered, under her breath, as she turned
      from the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the
      upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange
      going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came
      bounding down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin, I am lost!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Come on, Capitan!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;the hard, cold Senora! She would alone be glad. Everybody
      else would be sorry. &ldquo;They will all be sorry I have gone,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
       thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a long sigh, and, turning her
      back on her home, went forward in the path she had chosen.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. &ldquo;Will you come with me,
      Capitan?&rdquo; she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three
      short, sharp notes of delight. &ldquo;Good Capitan, come! They will not miss him
      out of so many,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;and it will always seem like something from
      home, as long as I have Capitan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing
      slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension at
      the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows at
      this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into the
      copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments more he
      thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this bent and
      slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling along
      under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a collie as
      Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. Presently he
      saw the figure halt,&mdash;drop part of its burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro!&rdquo; came in a sweet, low call.
    </p>
    <p>
      He bounded like a deer, crying, &ldquo;My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be
      you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona laughed. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you had no basket to cover the head,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, as he threw
      up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In doing
      so, he felt the violin-case.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it the violin?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;My blessed one, where did you get it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Off the table in Felipe's room,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast, licking
      his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and
      affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times
      heard him do this. It frightened her. &ldquo;Why do you laugh, Alessandro?&rdquo; she
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To think what I have to show you, my Senorita,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Look here;&rdquo; and
      turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at the
      first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end of his
      lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he perceived
      Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you not glad, Senorita?&rdquo; cried Alessandro, aghast. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it is! it is!&rdquo; sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. &ldquo;It is a
      miracle,&mdash;a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!&rdquo; she
      cried, for the first time observing that. &ldquo;Alessandro,&rdquo; in an awe-struck
      whisper, &ldquo;did the saints send him? Did you find him here?&rdquo; It would have
      seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think the saints helped me to bring him,&rdquo; answered Alessandro,
      seriously, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no!&rdquo; answered Ramona. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; and
      she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek against it
      lovingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the saddle.
      &ldquo;Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so heavy as my
      Senorita thought,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It was the weight on the forehead, with
      nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her pain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. &ldquo;We must make all the
      speed we can, dearest Senorita,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will not,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;There is no danger. The Senora said she
      should do nothing. 'Nothing!'&rdquo; she repeated, in a bitter tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were all ready now,&mdash;Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets
      swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his
      tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but
      Ramona's heart was full of joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know why it is, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I should think I would be
      afraid, but I have not the least fear,&mdash;not the least; not of
      anything that can come, Alessandro,&rdquo; she reiterated with emphasis. &ldquo;Is it
      not strange?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senorita,&rdquo; he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he walked
      close at her side. &ldquo;It is strange. I am afraid,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you never going to call me by my name?&rdquo; asked Ramona. &ldquo;I hate your
      calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she
      was displeased.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will never speak the word again!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;The saints forbid
      I should speak to you in the words of that woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't you say Ramona?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him
      difficult to say Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?&rdquo; she
      continued. &ldquo;The Indian name,&mdash;the name of the dove?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majel,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; He stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I to you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and
      resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his
      mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had ever
      before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close that he
      touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it had been
      anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it even now.
      But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she had
      stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. Did that
      mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted accordingly;
      turning his head round to the right, and looking back to see what came of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips
      together,&mdash;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,&mdash;Alessandro running; the
      poor Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for
      many a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majel is my name, then,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;is it? It is a sweet sound, but I
      would like it better Majella. Call me Majella.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will be good,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because it was to be that you should call me Majella,&rdquo; said Ramona.
      &ldquo;Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora called
      me by&mdash;and dear Felipe too,&rdquo; she added thoughtfully. &ldquo;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,&mdash;Alessandro's
      Majel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile,
      Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began
      turning him round and round in the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will not go any farther in the road,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I must conceal our
      tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces.&rdquo; The obedient Baba
      backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the Indian
      pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under Alessandro's
      skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and stood waiting
      further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was no trail to show
      where they had left the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles,
      cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the tracks
      for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much bewildered as to
      what it all meant, Alessandro said: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afraid.&rdquo; laughed Ramona. &ldquo;Afraid,&mdash;on Baba, and with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for the day
      in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to Temecula,&mdash;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. &ldquo;She
      can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen one of her horses,&rdquo; he thought
      to himself bitterly; &ldquo;and everybody would believe her. Nobody would
      believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's own horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it was
      in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had grown
      up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of thicket.
      Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot once from
      the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had found, to his
      surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this canon that he had
      brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona to arrange for the
      decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with them, growing almost
      in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so farther down, and to
      reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to let himself down a sheer
      wall of stone. The canon at its head was little more than a rift in the
      rocks, and the stream which had its rise in it was only a trickling spring
      at the beginning. It was this precious water, as well as the
      inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided Alessandro to gain the
      place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of granite would not have
      seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did this wall of chaparral,
      along which they rode, vainly searching for a break in it. It appeared to
      Alessandro to have thickened and knit even since the last spring. At last
      they made their way down a small side canon,&mdash;a sort of wing to the
      main canon; a very few rods down this, and they were as hidden from view
      from above as if the earth had swallowed them. The first red tints of the
      dawn were coming. From the eastern horizon to the zenith, the whole sky
      was like a dappled crimson fleece.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, what a lovely place.&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona. &ldquo;I am sure this was not a
      hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. &ldquo;How little does the
      wood-dove know of rough places!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;This is only the beginning;
      hardly is it even the beginning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing from
      sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction. Returning at
      last, with a grave face, he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing
      sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. &ldquo;I must go, Majella,&rdquo; he
      said with emphasis. &ldquo;We are in danger here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go! go! Alessandro,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;But, oh, do not be long!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and snapping
      before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the world.
      Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her call.
      All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments seemed
      hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the sky, and the
      crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard Alessandro's
      steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have found the trail!&rdquo; he exclaimed; &ldquo;but we must climb up again out of
      this; and it is too light. I like it not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open
      again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close to
      the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way,
      suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but the
      boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them; still the
      little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted with displeasure as
      he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The thick-set, thorny branches
      smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they caught the nets swung on
      Baba's sides; presently these were held fast, and Baba began to rear and
      kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro dismounted, cut the strings,
      and put both the packages securely on the back of his own pony. &ldquo;I will
      walk,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It was only a little way longer I would have ridden. I
      shall lead Baba, where it is narrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Narrow,&rdquo; indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her
      eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,&mdash;a stony,
      crumbling path,&mdash;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&mdash;hundreds
      of feet below&mdash;lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of chaparral,
      looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees lifted their
      heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain glistened the
      loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world, seen of but few
      human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these fugitives this day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first
      tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the horse
      was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now, they
      would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there was
      running water, clear as crystal, and cold,&mdash;almost colder than one
      could drink,&mdash;and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the
      horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain
      for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these
      thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes full
      of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been only on the
      smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so fearless, that
      he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she had dropped the
      reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and sitting unsteadily
      in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but she was nearly
      beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly that Baba, whose
      nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a stop that Ramona
      uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail was
      impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to ride.
      Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carita,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, did you?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella,&rdquo; answered
      Alessandro, sorrowfully. &ldquo;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,&mdash;old Fernando on his horse all the
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really,&rdquo; said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, &ldquo;I will try not to be
      so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an
      hour yet before we stop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the
      bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only, as she
      looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had come,&mdash;little
      more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the rock,&mdash;she
      shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when they
      arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did the sun
      fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an exclamation
      of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he added, in a tone almost solemn; and throwing his arms
      around her, he drew her to his breast, with the first feeling of joy he
      had experienced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish we could live here always,&rdquo; cried Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would Majella be content?&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very,&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sighed. &ldquo;There would not be land enough, to live here,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If
      there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and never
      see the face of a white man again!&rdquo; Already the instinct of the hunted and
      wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's blood. &ldquo;But
      there would be no food. We could not live here.&rdquo; Ramona's exclamation had
      set Alessandro to thinking, however. &ldquo;Would Majella be content to stay
      here three days now?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baba!&rdquo; cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. &ldquo;My own horse! She would not
      dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;horse-stealing&rdquo; meant all through the country. She looked
      piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is it, Majella,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's just wicked enough to do it!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Let us not stir out of
      this spot, Alessandro,&mdash;not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By
      that time she would have given over looking for us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, earnestly,
      &ldquo;and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!&rdquo; She was like a
      child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for the
      time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued. Pursuit
      of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the reclaiming of
      Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona thought of it,
      the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would be likely to
      commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly prevent it. It
      was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that it would be shameful
      to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay Ramona's hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note to Felipe
      she had said that she supposed they were going to Father Salvierderra, it
      would have saved both her and Alessandro much disquietude. Alessandro
      would have known that men pursuing them, on that supposition, would have
      gone straight down the river road to the sea, and struck northward along
      the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to mention this; in fact, she
      hardly recollected it after the first day. Alessandro had explained to her
      his plan, which was to go by way of Temecula to San Diego, to be married
      there by Father Gaspara, the priest of that parish, and then go to the
      village or pueblo of San Pasquale, about fifteen miles northwest of San
      Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's was the head man of this village, and had
      many times begged him to come there to live; but Alessandro had steadily
      refused, believing it to be his duty to remain at Temecula with his
      father. San Pasquale was a regularly established pueblo, founded by a
      number of the Indian neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of
      the breaking up of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the
      Governor of California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to
      it. A paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the
      Governor's own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of
      the pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority
      passed into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro
      had spoken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ysidro has that paper still,&rdquo; Alessandro said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Alessandro,&rdquo; cried Ramona, &ldquo;why do you think it is not safe there,
      if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers they
      took away,&rdquo; said Ramona, thoughtfully. &ldquo;But Felipe said that was because
      Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to give away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's just it,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground,
      and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It
      was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought of
      danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and
      apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from
      the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and
      that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from her
      inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things
      Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was also
      largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of her soul,&mdash;qualities
      in her nature never yet tested; qualities of which she hardly knew so much
      as the name, but which were to bear her steadfast and buoyant through many
      sorrowful years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro had
      prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita and
      ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon. Above
      these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long; when it
      was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona seated
      herself on it, she exclaimed: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,&mdash;the first moment he had
      ever dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. &ldquo;Yes, I remember
      it, my Majella,&rdquo; he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?&rdquo; said Ramona, seeing that
      he spread no more boughs. &ldquo;You have made yourself no bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro laughed. &ldquo;I need no bed,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what are you afraid of?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella,&rdquo; he answered.
      &ldquo;It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall
      feel safer to watch to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was, that
      he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him uneasiness.
      They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the tracks of a
      mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the curl of smoke
      from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and keep it blazing all
      night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast return.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not
      strong,&rdquo; said Ramona, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am strong now, Majella,&rdquo; answered Alessandro. And indeed he did already
      look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety. &ldquo;I am no
      longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you lie on the fern-bed then?&rdquo; asked Ramona, gleefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would like the ground better,&rdquo; said honest Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona looked disappointed. &ldquo;That is very strange,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is not
      so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by lying
      on it,&rdquo; she continued, throwing herself down; &ldquo;but oh, how sweet, how
      sweet it smells!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there is spice-wood in it,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;I put it in at the head,
      for Majella's pillow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept like a
      child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear the crackling
      of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of Capitan, who more
      than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet him, made the canon
      echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard the stealthy steps of
      wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour she slept on. And hour
      after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge sycamore-trunk, and
      watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her face, he thought he
      had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of calm repose insensibly
      soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a saint, he thought; perhaps
      it was as a saint of help and guidance, the Virgin was sending her to him
      and his people. The darkness deepened, became blackness; only the red
      gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying rifts, as the wind makes rifts
      in black storm-clouds in the heavens. With the darkness, the stillness
      also deepened. Nothing broke that, except an occasional motion of Baba or
      the pony, or an alert signal from Capitan; then all seemed stiller than
      ever. Alessandro felt as if God himself were in the canon. Countless times
      in his life before he had lain in lonely places under the sky and watched
      the night through, but he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it
      was pain. What was to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the
      next, and the next, all through the coming years? What was to come to this
      beloved and loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so
      trustful, guarded only by him,&mdash;by him, Alessandro, the exile,
      fugitive, homeless man?
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full of
      them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened sense;
      pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and replying, as
      did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he watched under
      the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,&mdash;&ldquo;Love?&rdquo; &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; &ldquo;Love?&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; They comforted him still more now. &ldquo;They too have only each
      other,&rdquo; he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning
      twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the sycamores
      caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in the dusk.
      Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar sound of the
      linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her instantly. Sitting up
      bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed, &ldquo;Oh, is it morning
      already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than we! Sing,
      Alessandro,&rdquo; and she began the hymn:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we too
      sing.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sing not so loud, my Majel,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro, as her voice went
      carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. &ldquo;There might be hunters near
      who would hear;&rdquo; and he joined in with low and muffled tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than
      before:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;'Come, O sinners,
     Come, and we will sing
     Tender hymns
     To our refuge,'&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;My
      Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints.&rdquo; And indeed he might have
      been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in the
      shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall of
      fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in
      tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with
      devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of
      sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun
      she could not see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, my love,&rdquo; she breathed rather than said. &ldquo;That would be a sin, if
      you really thought it.
    </p>
<pre>
     'O beautiful Queen,
     Princess of Heaven,'&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking on
      her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost
      without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the
      morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory
      crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It had
      belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father Salvierderra,
      and by Father Salvierderra to the &ldquo;blessed child,&rdquo; Ramona, at her
      confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not have
      bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate heart it had
      always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father Salvierderra's
      love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted Peyri.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the
      last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight shot
      into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern crest,&mdash;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,&mdash;like a message
      straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better messenger,&mdash;she,
      the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; mother of the Christ to
      whom they prayed, through her,&mdash;mother, for whose sake He would
      regard their least cry,&mdash;could she choose better messenger, or
      swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would help them in
      these sore straits.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be
      found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled
      the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the
      wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to
      Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter.
      Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more for
      man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to do,
      than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection, when by
      weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an interval, to
      her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of what he had
      called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of superiority,
      makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! &ldquo;Whom the gods love, die
      young,&rdquo; 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&mdash;forever.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian,
      Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted
      look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they
      meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?&rdquo;
       she said, in a tone of pleasure. &ldquo;I see that yon tall yucca has gone in
      shadow sooner than it did yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how
      full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent;
      it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable of
      Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to say,
      and said less eloquently.
    </p>
    <p>
      After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, &ldquo;You speak as the trees
      speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying
      anything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This delighted Alessandro's very heart. &ldquo;And you, Majella,&rdquo; he exclaimed;
      &ldquo;when you say that, you speak in the language of our people; you are as we
      are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,&mdash;happier than
      she would have been made by any other praise or fondness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle.
      The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was
      already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who
      wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to all
      but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him away
      from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and summoned
      magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their command.
      Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; but as she
      vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,&mdash;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,&mdash;a beautiful allegory, and true,&mdash;of love
      and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now growing
      strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and just as
      strength-giving.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?&rdquo; said Ramona,
      studying his countenance with loving care. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella,&rdquo; replied
      Alessandro. &ldquo;I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw
      you. It is not the air;&rdquo; and he looked at her with a gaze that said the
      rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up Baba,
      saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon
      Alessandro had said to her: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the look
      on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled afresh
      in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and saw
      Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were again
      carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again the sense
      of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an unbearable burden
      on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his Majella?
    </p>
    <p>
      But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in such
      gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly rollicking
      with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan, too, was gay.
      He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing shade and cool water.
      He longed for sheep. He did not understand this inactivity. The puzzled
      look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than once, as he would come
      and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing his eyes intently on her
      face, as if he said in so many words, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must ride all night, Majella,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;and lose no time. It
      is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it a canon?&rdquo; asked Ramona, hopefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will it be safe there?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;though not so safe as here. There is no such
      place as this in all the country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then where shall we go next?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is very near Temecula,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would like to see it, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, Majella!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;you would not. It is terrible; the
      houses all unroofed,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?&rdquo; she said
      timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The saints forbid!&rdquo; he said solemnly. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; he added,
      after a moment's silence; &ldquo;it takes the strength all out of my blood
      again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the word &ldquo;Temecula&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Lights, Alessandro, lights!&rdquo; she exclaimed, pointing to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Majella,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;it is Temecula,&rdquo; and springing off his pony
      he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must wait somewhere while you go!&rdquo; said Ramona, her heart beating as
      she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as
      the sea. &ldquo;That is the only safe thing, Alessandro.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so too,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not you
      be afraid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the
      other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;he
      and Capitan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility. Alessandro
      had thought of everything. &ldquo;What could happen?&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the
      horse,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you would not have the horse with you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How could they
      take you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That mightn't make any difference,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;They might take
      me, to make me tell where the horse was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Alessandro,&rdquo; sobbed Ramona, &ldquo;what shall we do!&rdquo; Then in another
      second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, &ldquo;Alessandro, I know what I
      will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I not
      be safest there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her confidence was contagious. &ldquo;My wood-dove has in her breast the heart
      of the lion,&rdquo; said Alessandro, fondly. &ldquo;We will do as she says. She is
      wise;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;The thieves have
      taken the gate!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What could they have wanted with that?&rdquo; said Ramona
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To burn,&rdquo; he said doggedly, &ldquo;It was wood; but it was very little. They
      might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the graves.
      Ramona started.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fear nothing,&rdquo; whispered Alessandro. &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and leaving Ramona at
      the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in the Luiseno
      language, &ldquo;Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I, Alessandro!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was spending
      her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her husband's
      in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the Americans were
      there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her, Alessandro
      returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side, he laid her
      feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all she
      could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she could
      see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less needful
      to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona was pitying
      her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her from the
      saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face. Again she
      drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to the corner
      from which she had come. Ramona understood. &ldquo;She wants to show me her
      husband's grave,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;She does not like to be away from it. I
      will go with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head
      assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed her.
      The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked by a
      small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew each
      inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly fell,
      and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities under his
      feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled earth of
      the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona to the edge
      of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both hands on her
      heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into weeping, and again
      clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast, to show her sympathy.
      Carmena did not weep. She was long past that; and she felt for the moment
      lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden sympathy of this stranger,&mdash;this
      girl like herself, yet so different, so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena
      was sure she must be. Had the saints sent her from heaven to Alessandro?
      What did it mean? Carmena's bosom was heaving with the things she longed
      to say and to ask; but all she could do was to press Ramona's hand again
      and again, and occasionally lay her soft cheek upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the
      graveyard?&rdquo; thought Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate.
      Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect to
      find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting for
      Alessandro to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a quick
      run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the
      graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near, he
      saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. &ldquo;A light in our house!&rdquo;
       he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. &ldquo;Those cursed robbers have gone
      into it to live already!&rdquo; His blood seemed turning to fire. Ramona would
      not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was full of
      implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It was gone.
      His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah! in
      the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for him. Thoughts of
      vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one hope, one passion,
      for him. But he would at least see who were these dwellers in his father's
      house. A fierce desire to see their faces burned within him. Why should he
      thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But he must. He would see the new
      home-life already begun on the grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the
      window from which the light shone, he listened. He heard children's
      voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the voice of a man, gruff and surly;
      various household sounds also. It was evidently the supper-hour.
      Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were on a level with the lowest
      panes in the window, he looked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it a
      man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby, sat
      in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for its
      supper. The room was in great confusion,&mdash;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,&mdash;of
      a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute creation, making their
      names a unit of comparison for base traits which never one of them
      possessed?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!&rdquo; said the
      woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of what
      she said. He listened eagerly. &ldquo;When will the next wagon get here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; growled her husband. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, John,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can grumble, I take notice,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment.
      Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she
      exclaimed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;There's a man
      there! There, at the window!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had he
      imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to this
      mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With a fearful
      oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; and he took his gun down from
      the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't fire, father, don't.&rdquo; cried the woman. &ldquo;They'll come and murder
      us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!&rdquo; and she pulled him back by the
      sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and
      stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat
      like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would
      have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father,&rdquo; persisted the woman.
      &ldquo;Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody there. Come
      in; supper's gettin' all cold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round here,&rdquo;
       said the fiend. &ldquo;If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't know what
      hurt him;&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;Mi-i-issed him that time,&rdquo; and went in to his supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own
      folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of
      waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that
      desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,&mdash;sliding
      along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the
      house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full speed
      for Hartsel's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere
      except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it
      gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region.
      Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank at
      Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind within a
      radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its kind within
      a much wider radius.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow&mdash;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,&mdash;wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. &ldquo;It was only a
      question of time and occasion,&rdquo; they said, &ldquo;Hartsel's killing somebody
      sooner or later;&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still lower
      flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the kitchen,
      and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough planks, a story
      and a half high, the loft of which was one great dormitory well provided
      with beds on the floor, but with no other article of bedroom furniture.
      They who slept in this loft had no fastidious standards of personal
      luxury. These two buildings, with some half-dozen out-houses of one sort
      and another, stood in an enclosure surrounded by a low white picket fence,
      which gave to the place a certain home-like look, spite of the neglected
      condition of the ground, which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with
      weeds and wild grass. A few plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots
      and tin cans around the door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew
      whether they made the place look less desolate or more so. But they were
      token of a woman's hand, and of a nature which craved something more than
      the unredeemed wilderness around her afforded.
    </p>
    <p>
      A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the store.
      Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and he heard
      loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around to the
      rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened the
      kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but
      Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one dim
      candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and
      frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the men
      who were noisily rollicking in the other house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs.
      Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to
      find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not
      recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in
      his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the
      place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying, and
      anything else he could do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run, Ramon,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?&rdquo; she gave a scream of
      surprise, and dropped her knife. &ldquo;Why, who&mdash;&rdquo; she began; then, seeing
      his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she continued, &ldquo;Alessandro!
      Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old Ramon! I thought you were
      in Pachanga.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Pachanga!&rdquo; 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; &ldquo;I have been in Pachanga. My
      father is dead. I have buried him there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?&rdquo; cried the kindly woman, coming closer to
      Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. &ldquo;I heard he was sick.&rdquo;
       She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the time
      of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two days
      she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that she need
      not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words. She was a
      Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her
      veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable now,
      as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his shoulder, her
      eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered! How well she
      recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb bearing, his
      handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were away all summer, Alessandro?&rdquo; she said at last, turning back to
      her work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said: &ldquo;at the Senora Moreno's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I heard,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, he is a man now,&rdquo; said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak,&rdquo; thought Mrs.
      Hartsel. &ldquo;I'll just let him alone;&rdquo; and she spoke no more for some
      moments.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized
      him; at last he said wearily: &ldquo;I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr.
      Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she continued, bethinking herself, &ldquo;Jim's got your violin
      here; Jose brought it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know it,&rdquo; answered Alessandro. &ldquo;Jose told me; and that was one
      thing I stopped for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll run and get it,&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed it is,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he play? Will he buy it?&rdquo; cried Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know; I'll call Jim,&rdquo; she said; and running out she looked in at
      the other door, saying, &ldquo;Jim! Jim!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face,
      her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance.
      Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises,
      &ldquo;Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Till morning!&rdquo; A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. &ldquo;I
      can't!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I must go on to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what for?&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief
      second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything to
      her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and
      Ramona's, the better.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be in San Diego to-morrow,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got work there?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; that is, in San Pasquale,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and I ought to have been there
      three days ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Hartsel mused. &ldquo;Jim can't do anything to-night,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;that's
      certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him. He could
      not face one of these Americans who were &ldquo;coming in&rdquo; to his valley. Mrs.
      Hartsel understood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you, Alessandro,&rdquo; said the kindly woman, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man in
      this country,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;He's about the only white man I do
      trust!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat.
      Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. &ldquo;Humph! Got more'n I thought I
      had,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I knew
      Jim'd be drunk before night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance of
      those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs. Hartsel
      counted them out on the table,&mdash;one, two, three, four, bright
      five-dollar pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is as much as I dare take,&rdquo; said Alessandro, when she put down the
      fourth. &ldquo;Will you trust me for so much?&rdquo; he added sadly. &ldquo;You know I have
      nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some work
      to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. &ldquo;It's a shame!&rdquo; she said,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad he is dead,&rdquo; said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into his
      handkerchief and put it into his bosom. &ldquo;But he was murdered, Mrs.
      Hartsel,&mdash;murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's true.&rdquo; she exclaimed vehemently. &ldquo;I say so too; and so was Jose.
      That's just what I said at the time,&mdash;that bullets would not be half
      so inhuman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room
      burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling,
      laughing, reeling into the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian
      here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will bring
      in your supper immediately. It is all ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back into
      the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the table
      and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro,&rdquo; whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as she
      passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and
      contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. &ldquo;You'd better go. There's no knowing
      what they'll do next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you not afraid?&rdquo; he said in a low tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's
      round somewhere,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father,
      and Jose, and Carmena's baby!&rdquo; thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly back
      towards the graveyard. &ldquo;And Father Salvierderra says, God is good. It must
      be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell long
      on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too loudly. Putting
      his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted handkerchief, he
      thought: &ldquo;Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will buy food for many
      days for my Majella and for Baba!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona
      would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the
      graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer,
      and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at
      Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her
      thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected
      upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have made.
      Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes which
      might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was sitting,
      helpless, in the midnight darkness,&mdash;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, &ldquo;I must go! It is too long! I cannot wait
      here!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;O beloved lady, you must not go! Waiting is the only
      safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He will come.&rdquo; The word
      &ldquo;Alessandro&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo; she bounded to him, dropping Baba's
      reins.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding the
      horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words. &ldquo;How she
      loves Alessandro!&rdquo; thought the widowed Carmena. &ldquo;Will they leave him alive
      to stay with her? It is better not to love!&rdquo; But there was no bitter envy
      in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she went desolate. All
      of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro. They had looked
      forward to his being over them in his father's place. They knew his
      goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majella, you tremble,&rdquo; said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around her.
      &ldquo;You have feared! Yet you were not alone.&rdquo; He glanced at Carmena's
      motionless figure, standing by Baba.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!&rdquo; replied Ramona; &ldquo;and
      I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just come
      from Pachanga,&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,&rdquo;
       continued Ramona. &ldquo;But she told me to wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She told you!&rdquo; repeated Alessandro. &ldquo;How did you understand her speech?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. &ldquo;Did you say that?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Carmena.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words,&rdquo; he said
      delightedly. &ldquo;She is one of us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Carmena, gravely, &ldquo;she is one of us.&rdquo; Then, taking Ramona's
      hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire
      prophecy, &ldquo;One of us, Alessandro! one of us!&rdquo; And as she gazed after their
      retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the darkness,
      she repeated the words again to herself,&mdash;&ldquo;One of us! one of us!
      Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!&rdquo; and she crept back to her
      husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them
      directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting or
      being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to the
      north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past the place
      where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and putting his
      hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of ruined walls.
      &ldquo;This was Antonio's house, Majella,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he went on, his
      whisper growing thick with rage. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. &ldquo;Living in
      your house!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You saw them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground. A
      few steps farther, and he tripped again. &ldquo;There is something caught round
      his foot, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;It keeps moving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, &ldquo;It's a
      stake,&mdash;and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what&mdash;&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Like the wind galloped Benito,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Can you follow, dearest Majella?&rdquo; he
      cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?&rdquo; she retorted,
      pressing on closely.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he
      would have given Ramona trouble.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is only a little, rough like this, dear,&rdquo; called Alessandro, as he
      leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; he
      cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of the
      canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from
      underbrush. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;I can go from here to San Diego by
      paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank it
      in with delight. &ldquo;I taste salt in the air, Alessandro,&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is the sea,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cannot we go there?&rdquo; she said longingly. &ldquo;Would it not be safe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare not,&rdquo; he answered regretfully. &ldquo;Not now, Majella; for on the
      shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and there
      is no danger?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Majella,&rdquo; he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, &ldquo;Will a
      time ever come when there will be no danger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a
      succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down
      many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and
      rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little
      more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their mouths
      they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to a
      quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach before
      morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and
      commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he had
      found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he
      believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into
      San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale
      that same night. &ldquo;All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,&rdquo; he
      thought; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been
      cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss
      filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As Ramona
      looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out to the
      wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her into a
      fairy-land.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a beautiful world!&rdquo; she cried; and riding up so close to Benito that
      she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was not
      yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward from the
      hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the light-house on
      the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few moments more it
      would be day. &ldquo;No, Majella, not here.&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the shelter
      they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still remained,
      and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the long drought,&mdash;a
      scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with relish in each
      other's company.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They like each other, those two,&rdquo; said Ramona, laughing, as she watched
      them. &ldquo;They will be friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Alessandro, also smiling. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know you the priest at San Diego?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not well,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A priest!&rdquo; ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay! a priest!&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;They are not all good,&mdash;not like
      Father Salvierderra.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!&rdquo; exclaimed Ramona,
      involuntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro looked distressed. &ldquo;It would have been much more danger,
      Majella,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and I had no knowledge of work I could do there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one
      feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. &ldquo;Oh, this is much
      better, really,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a Santa Inez Indian I know,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,&rdquo; sighed Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,&rdquo; replied
      Alessandro. &ldquo;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&mdash;how they never knew&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it here, in this very harbor?&rdquo; asked Ramona, in breathless interest,
      pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a broad belt
      framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, just there he sailed,&mdash;as that ship goes now,&rdquo; he exclaimed, as
      a white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Alessandro,&rdquo; continued Ramona, &ldquo;were there really bad men at the
      other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature,&rdquo; replied the
      pious Ramona. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old woman laughed when she told it,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?&rdquo; asked Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Majella. It would not be polite,&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't believe it,&rdquo; replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. &ldquo;I don't
      believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, and had
      been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to resume
      their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego, where
      Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San Luis Rey,
      and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they
      reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low
      adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio days,
      but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those occupied by
      the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite side of the way, in
      a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,&mdash;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,&mdash;the most profoundly melancholy in
      all Southern California. Here was the spot where that grand old
      Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began his work, full of the devout and
      ardent purpose to reclaim the wilderness and its peoples to his country
      and his Church; on this very beach he went up and down for those first
      terrible weeks, nursing the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the
      dead, from the pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here
      he baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And
      the only traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes
      were a pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less
      than another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping
      of that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her
      graves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a
      Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been
      from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place. He
      had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he
      could have been,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;had said, &ldquo;It is of no
      use; I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!&rdquo; and settling
      down into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and
      Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort
      to do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or
      twice a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were
      brought to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black
      beard, with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp
      than the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe,
      he would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke by
      the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor, brooding,
      ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine brick
      church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to see builded,
      and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San Diego's
      repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone this hope and
      dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it would be indeed a
      waste of money to build a costly church on this site. Sentiment, however
      sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to the demands of the
      living. To build a church on the ground where Father Junipero first trod
      and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent;
      but there were other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was
      right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a
      sore one to Father Gaspara,&mdash;a daily cross, which he did not find
      grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out, in
      the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro,
      as they rode into the silent plaza. &ldquo;Father Gaspara must be there;&rdquo; and
      jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained window. &ldquo;A
      marriage, Majella,&mdash;a marriage!&rdquo; he cried, hastily returning. &ldquo;This,
      too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had
      just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was
      waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard,
      where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom he
      hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had been
      neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father
      was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he regarded
      Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the least
      prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had never
      knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who had
      supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked at
      the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first
      glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all this!&rdquo; he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he
      exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, &ldquo;Woman, are you an
      Indian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Father,&rdquo; answered Ramona, gently. &ldquo;My mother was an Indian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! half-breed!&rdquo; thought Father Gaspara. &ldquo;It is strange how sometimes one
      of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no common
      creature;&rdquo; and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy on his face
      that he proceeded with the ceremony,&mdash;the other couple, a middle-aged
      Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing quietly by, and
      looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, impassive faces, as
      if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms,
      locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter
      reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's
      interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769,
      and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the Irish
      couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other, Alessandro,
      still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, &ldquo;Will you ride, dear? It is but
      a step.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,&rdquo; she replied; and
      Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm, they
      walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was still
      more puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady,&rdquo; he mused. &ldquo;What does it mean?
      Who are they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been used
      to associations far superior to any which he had known in his Californian
      life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that with which
      Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in his parish. When
      they entered his house, he again regarded them both attentively. Ramona
      wore on her head the usual black shawl of the Mexican women. There was
      nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in her figure or face. In the
      dim light of the one candle,&mdash;Father Gaspara allowed himself no
      luxuries,&mdash;the exquisite coloring of her skin and the deep blue of
      her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure and dignified
      bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as fine-looking Indian
      men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke better Spanish than was
      wont to be heard from Indians.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you from?&rdquo; said the Father, as he held his pen poised in hand,
      ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Temecula, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara dropped his pen. &ldquo;The village the Americans drove out the
      other day?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, as
      usual, in pacing the floor. &ldquo;Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all over,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;A burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen
      yet in this land forsaken of God!&rdquo; cried the Father. &ldquo;I saw the
      particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.&rdquo; Then, coming to a
      halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Father,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. &ldquo;What are you
      going to do?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Where have you all gone? There were two hundred in
      your village the last time I was there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some have gone over into Pachanga,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, &ldquo;some to San
      Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!&rdquo; stormed Father
      Gaspara.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro did not understand the word &ldquo;philosophy,&rdquo; but he knew what the
      Father meant. &ldquo;Yes, Father,&rdquo; he said doggedly. &ldquo;It is now twenty-one days
      ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce,
      black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry
      invectives.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The United States Government will suffer for it!&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;It is a
      Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see;
      they will be visited with a curse,&mdash;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;&rdquo; and he seated himself once
      more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open.
    </p>
    <p>
      After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. &ldquo;And the woman's?&rdquo;
       he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, &ldquo;Majella.&rdquo;
       What name should he give more?
    </p>
    <p>
      Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, &ldquo;Majella. Majella Phail is
      my name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pronounced the word &ldquo;Phail,&rdquo; slowly. It was new to her. She had never
      seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to whom also it
      was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two syllables, and so
      wrote it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any
      one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the
      woman married under the name of &ldquo;Majella Fayeel&rdquo;?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! Put up your money, son,&rdquo; said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro began
      to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To San Pasquale, Father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper,&rdquo; said
      Father Gaspara. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. &ldquo;How is that, Father?&rdquo;
       he said. &ldquo;I do not know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach,&rdquo; replied
      Father Gaspara; &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;lingered strangely, it seemed
      to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was something
      unusual about the woman. &ldquo;I shall hear of them again, some day,&rdquo; he
      thought. And he thought rightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly
      through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road,
      leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and they
      forded it without difficulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many
      days,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;but that was in spring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it is well we came not at that time,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;All the times
      have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,&mdash;the dark nights, and the
      streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!&rdquo; and she pointed
      to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the sky. &ldquo;Not
      big enough to do us any harm, however,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;But, dear Alessandro,
      do you not think we are safe now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa,
      or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve
      miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow valley,&mdash;the
      Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of their few abortive
      efforts to repel the American forces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, Majella,&rdquo;
       said Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; sighed Majella. &ldquo;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,&mdash;for hate, or in anger; never for gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indians, also,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;Never one Indian killed another,
      yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella, they
      are dogs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage on
      his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred which would
      never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him impossible. The
      name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;There must
      be some that are honest; do you not think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are they, then,&rdquo; he cried fiercely,&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what the Senora says,&rdquo; answered Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;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,&mdash;all that land we rode over the second night, Majella.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at ease.
      Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But my Majella loves things that are beautiful,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;She
      has lived like a queen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Alessandro,&rdquo; merrily laughed Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered these
      words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of some
      other sphere had come to dwell by his side. &ldquo;I cannot find how to feel
      towards the saints as you do, my Majella,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of
      the saints, Alessandro,&rdquo; replied Ramona, earnestly. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she
      went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can we tell, then?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;just as I knew
      all the time, when you did not come,&mdash;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,&mdash;you will
      know that I love you, the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Alessandro, reflectively, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not quite,&rdquo; said Ramona; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear her speak?&rdquo; said Alessandro, awe-stricken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words,&rdquo; replied Ramona,
      confidently. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella,&rdquo; cried Alessandro, with
      sacrilegious warmth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house,&rdquo; said
      Alessandro. &ldquo;It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of it,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will
      not leave me, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always
      vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed
      from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were on
      wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child, crying
      out in alarm, and clinging to the hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like that you made for Felipe?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like the Americans,&rdquo; she said, half laughing, but with tears in the
      voice. &ldquo;Whipping would not cure them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of the
      hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two such
      crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the three
      valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of contour than
      any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges of high
      mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was overcast and
      gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it were spring, this would mean rain,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;but it cannot
      rain, I think, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; laughed Ramona, &ldquo;not till we get our house done. Will it be of
      adobe, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not
      let you, Alessandro, build another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower temperament
      and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she were all of a
      sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside the pale of human
      life,&mdash;outside and above it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak as the birds sing, my Majella,&rdquo; he said slowly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say that, too, Alessandro!&rdquo; replied Ramona, reaching out both her arms
      towards him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and
      Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side; and
      Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of the
      sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice, and
      answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop when his
      mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped now, and it
      was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majella! Majella!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in his,
      he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; and he bowed his forehead on her hands, before he put them back
      gently on Baba's neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this
      distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? &ldquo;Alessandro can do one
      thing,&rdquo; she said, insensibly falling into his mode of speaking,&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;he himself all the world which she desires. Is
      Majella a liar?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half anguish,
      that Alessandro replied: &ldquo;Majella cannot lie. Majella is like the saints.
      Alessandro is hers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The
      vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat
      baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning
      these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating the
      yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women were
      sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in the
      village now; two large bands were away at work,&mdash;one at the autumn
      sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San
      Bernardino.
    </p>
    <p>
      In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or of
      cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men were
      ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles of the
      tule reeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are some of the Temecula people,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Ysidro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro
      saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, &ldquo;Who is
      this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife!&rdquo; answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and courteous
      welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, &ldquo;It is well. There is
      room. You are welcome.&rdquo; But when he heard the soft Spanish syllables in
      which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro, translating her words to
      him, said, &ldquo;Majel speaks only in the Spanish tongue, but she will learn
      ours,&rdquo; a look of disquiet passed over his countenance. His heart feared
      for Alessandro, and he said, &ldquo;Is she, then, not Indian? Whence got she the
      name of Majel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. &ldquo;Indian on the
      mother's side!&rdquo; said Alessandro, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Take her hand, dear Majella, if you feel no
      fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand
      outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender
      reverence: &ldquo;Say to her for me, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this speech,
      so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur of
      pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made no
      reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her,&rdquo; continued Ramona, &ldquo;that I ask if there is anything I can do
      for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,&rdquo;
       thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. &ldquo;And say
      that you will be her son,&rdquo; added Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had waited.
      Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and
      making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried to her house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people seemed
      to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not herself
      sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so moved,&mdash;to
      know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among primitive
      peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and grandly dramatic;
      but she was none the less stirred by them, because she could not analyze
      or explain them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go and see her every day,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;she shall be like my mother,
      whom I never saw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must both go each day,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;What we have said is a
      solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising
      ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule
      reeds and one of adobe,&mdash;the latter a comfortable little house of two
      rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale.
      The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near
      throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs
      shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was
      fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with
      adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes
      a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses,
      were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle
      weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor
      granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona
      thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they hard to make?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Can you make them, Alessandro? I
      shall want many.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All you want, my Majella,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Do not buy one,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;I wish everything in our house to be
      made by ourselves.&rdquo; In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously striking one
      of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky
      chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having
      gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work;
      this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own
      should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses
      joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy
      Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. It
      looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: &ldquo;Can Majella
      live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long; there are
      adobes already made.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, &ldquo;I think it will be
      very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in the
      dove-cote!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majel!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on a
      cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once
      belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, &ldquo;1790,&rdquo; on
      its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had
      come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues, Alessandro's
      desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing; but he revolved
      it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his shearers to San
      Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old Mission buildings a
      dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion. The San Fernando
      church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church properties as were
      left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not over-careful, and not in
      the least devout. It would not trouble him to part with a saint or two,
      Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to the saint either; on the
      contrary, the greatest of reverence, since the statue was to be taken from
      a place where no one cared for it, and brought into one where it would be
      tenderly cherished, and worshipped every day. If only San Fernando were
      not so far away, and the wooden saints so heavy! However, it should come
      about yet. Majella should have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should
      keep Alessandro from procuring for his Majel the few things that lay
      within his power. But he held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter
      gift, if she did not know it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and
      secretly as if he had come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes
      would dilate, if she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her
      bedside; and how sure she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,&mdash;his
      dear, devout Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more
      credulous than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he,
      untaught, had learned, in his solitude with nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a
      piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled
      him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred
      sheep?&rdquo; said Ysidro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Alessandro, &ldquo;you do not mean that! How is that? They
      told me all our stock was taken by the Americans.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula,&rdquo; replied Ysidro; &ldquo;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,&mdash;I think, near fifty head;
      and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of
      sheep,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like a
      deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the
      little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He
      was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out a
      blessing. &ldquo;What are a handful of sheep to her!&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. &ldquo;Majella! my
      Majella! There are cattle&mdash;and sheep,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;The saints be
      praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro,&rdquo; replied Ramona,
      gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not wonder! You do not ask!&rdquo; he cried, astonished at her calm.
      &ldquo;Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the skies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, not as our eyes would see,&rdquo; she answered; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he told her, her face grew solemn. &ldquo;Do you remember that night in the
      willows,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo; and she threw her arms
      around his neck and kissed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;I will believe, after this, that the
      saints love my Majella.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself:
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XX
    </h2>
    <p>
      ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and
      vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having been
      beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood on the
      south side of the valley,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Small to hold so much joy,&rdquo; she said, when
      Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, &ldquo;It is small,
      Majella,&mdash;too small;&rdquo; and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, the
      size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. &ldquo;Too small,&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro,&rdquo; she laughed; &ldquo;but quite
      large enough to hold two persons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had
      arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as she
      looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs and the
      raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the statuette of
      the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the wall, between
      the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep enough to hold
      small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept constantly growing
      there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and re-wreathed the niche till
      it looked like a bower. Below it hung her gold rosary and the ivory
      Christ; and many a woman of the village, when she came to see Ramona,
      asked permission to go into the bedroom and say her prayers there; so that
      it finally came to be a sort of shrine for the whole village.
    </p>
    <p>
      A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the
      little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She
      could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch.
      But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them,
      and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they would
      not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They lived
      in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees for them.
      &ldquo;In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will come,&rdquo; Alessandro
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part
      of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming
      implements,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Good Baba!&rdquo; Ramona
      said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his neck,&mdash;&ldquo;Good
      Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and you are so strong!
      Good Baba, do you love me?&rdquo; and with one hand in his mane, and her cheek,
      every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up and down the first
      furrows he ploughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Senorita!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;my Senorita!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There
      was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro had
      made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great outdoor
      acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and lifted from
      the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;eyes so blue that their color was the first thing noticed by
      each person who looked at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eyes of the sky,&rdquo; exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like the mother's,&rdquo; said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an astonished
      look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes, too, were
      blue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It is so. I never saw it;&rdquo; and he wondered in his
      heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born
      of an Indian mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eyes of the sky,&rdquo; became at once the baby's name in the village; and
      Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of so
      calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The news
      was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would hold
      services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the new-born
      babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night, Alessandro and
      Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what should be her name.
      Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name her Majella.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! Never but one Majella,&rdquo; he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a sense
      of vague fear, it was so solemn.
    </p>
    <p>
      They discussed &ldquo;Ramona,&rdquo; &ldquo;Isabella.&rdquo; Alessandro suggested Carmena. This
      had been his mother's name.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in the
      Temecula graveyard. &ldquo;Oh, no, no! Not that!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;It is ill-fated;&rdquo;
       and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only association
      with the name.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Alessandro said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let that name be her true one, then,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Blue Eyes,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Eyes of the Sky.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he
      had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the
      Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to
      meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the
      valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do
      him the honor to stay with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And indeed, Father,&rdquo; added Ysidro, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alessandro! Alessandro!&rdquo; said the Father, musingly. &ldquo;Has he been long
      married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Father,&rdquo; answered Ysidro. &ldquo;But little more than two years. They were
      married by you, on their way from Temecula here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay. I remember,&rdquo; said Father Gaspara. &ldquo;I will come;&rdquo; and it was with
      no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the couple that
      had so strongly impressed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining the
      priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with her
      cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra was
      much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father
      Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when he
      said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;I
      will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of
      gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's
      bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad lace
      on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright red
      calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of green
      leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Where got you that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is my wife's,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, proudly. &ldquo;It was given to her by
      Father Salvierderra.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Father. &ldquo;He died the other day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. &ldquo;To be
      sure, to be sure,&rdquo; he said absently; &ldquo;I will say nothing of it; but this
      is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And this,&mdash;is
      this not an altar-cloth?&rdquo; he added, lifting up the beautiful wrought
      altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on the wall
      below the Madonna's shrine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared in
      the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to
      Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's
      supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I pray you tell her not,&rdquo; said Alessandro, under his breath; but it was
      too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona exclaimed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I knew him,&mdash;not very well; it is long since I saw him,&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;What is it, Alessandro?&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Is it something
      about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from one
      to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona, laying
      both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had learned
      from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: &ldquo;You will not tell me!
      You do not speak! Then he is dead!&rdquo; and she sank on her knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my daughter, he is dead,&rdquo; said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than
      that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only a
      confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, &ldquo;a
      month ago.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would but be another grief, Father,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My faith, but the man is right,&rdquo; thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour
      later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did not
      know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour. It
      wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to speak
      to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the
      valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's
      name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. &ldquo;I cannot talk about him yet,
      dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I never believed that he would die without giving us his
      blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her the
      next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away, and
      spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered her
      too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help them. She
      had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since she came, and
      no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she smiled not. Yet
      there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready to be christened;
      and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing for half an hour, and
      from every corner of the valley the people were gathering, and Father
      Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was praying before the altar; it
      was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did Alessandro and Ramona kneel
      apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken countenances, not even looking
      glad when their baby laughed, and reached up her hands? Gradually it was
      whispered about what had happened. Some one had got it from Antonio, of
      Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then all the women's faces grew sad too.
      They all had heard of Father Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to
      the ivory Christ in Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and
      taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word. The
      gesture was more than any speech could have been.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips,
      &ldquo;Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last
      hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard very little,&rdquo; replied the Father, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; interrupted Ramona; &ldquo;that he always did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the last morning,&rdquo; continued the Father, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you very much, Father,&rdquo; said Ramona, without lifting her eyes from
      the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, &ldquo;I am glad that I know
      that he is dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!&rdquo; mused Father
      Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. &ldquo;There's none of them would look like
      that if I were dead, I warrant me! There,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next time!&rdquo; In what calendar are kept the records of those next times
      which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again,
      Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life,
      that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of the
      knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when Alessandro
      came in one noon with an expression on his face that terrified her;
      seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his hands, and would
      neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near crying from his
      silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with a ghastly face, he
      said in a hollow voice, &ldquo;It has begun!&rdquo; and buried his face again. Finally
      Ramona's tears wrung from him the following story:
    </p>
    <p>
      Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of
      the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the
      Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of hut
      for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not need
      the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He had
      taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone to San
      Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in the
      interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent
      agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having
      expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished to
      renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was his,
      and he was coming out there to build a house, and live.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had an
      angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The Doctor
      said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United States
      Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents in Los
      Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington, to show
      that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer in San
      Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,&mdash;the old one from
      the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San
      Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have;
      but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that such
      a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very well when
      the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that the Americans
      owned it now; and everything was done by the American law now, not by the
      Mexican law any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all,&rdquo; said Ysidro. &ldquo;Is
      that what it means?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the
      cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,&mdash;he could not
      tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at Washington.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown
      on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a
      soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States
      Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after
      souls,&mdash;that was his business,&mdash;and let the Indian beggars
      alone! &ldquo;Yes, that was what he said,&mdash;'the Indian beggars!' and so
      they would be all beggars, presently.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice
      was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with rage
      and despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do
      nothing! We might better be dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had,&rdquo; said Ramona,
      piteously. &ldquo;It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman,&rdquo; said Alessandro,
      fiercely. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom. In
      all the village councils,&mdash;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,&mdash;Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To whatever
      was proposed, he had but one reply: &ldquo;It is of no use. We can do nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What
      more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the American
      laws?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los Angeles
      priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently interpreted for
      him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted all that the officials
      had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as Alessandro in his bitterness
      had said. They were not inhuman, and they felt sincere sympathy for this
      man, representative of two hundred hard-working, industrious people, in
      danger of being turned out of house and home. But they were very busy;
      they had to say curtly, and in few words, all there was to be said: the
      San Pasquale district was certainly the property of the United States
      Government, and the lands were in market, to be filed on, and bought,
      according to the homestead laws, These officials had neither authority nor
      option in the matter. They were there simply to carry out instructions,
      and obey orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were
      beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the journey;
      he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles priest had
      promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington, to lay the
      case before the head man there, and perhaps something would be done for
      their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding along day after
      day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the subject,&mdash;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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did I tell you?&rdquo; cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and
      reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. &ldquo;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,&mdash;both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. You
      will see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office
      authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all his
      cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. &ldquo;It is better
      than nothing,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They will not now be sold by the sheriff, like my
      father's in Temecula.&rdquo; The money he got, he took to Father Gaspara.
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; he said huskily. &ldquo;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,&mdash;it may be to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San
      Diego, Alessandro cried: &ldquo;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,&rdquo; and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are your plans now?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plans!&rdquo; repeated Alessandro,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo; His voice broke as he said this. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift galloping
      Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the
      record,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Alessandro Assis.
      Majella Fa&mdash;&rdquo; No more could be read. The name meant nothing to Father
      Gaspara. &ldquo;Clearly an Indian name,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;yet she seemed
      superior in every way. I wonder where she got it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains
      set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get in
      as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early to
      ploughing new fields,&mdash;all but Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I will plough
      no more land for the robbers.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!&rdquo; said Ramona,
      cheerily. &ldquo;You are always looking on the black side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no other but the black side, Majella,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; So saying, he stooped and kissed the baby, and
      then kissing Ramona, went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba
      to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of
      thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone a few
      rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes
      meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went
      on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east.
      Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too
      disquieted. She could not keep back the tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How changed is Alessandro!&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;It terrifies me to see him
      thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;&rdquo; and kneeling before the
      shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and drawing the
      baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her embroidery. Her
      skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable source of income,
      her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego merchants, and at
      fairly good prices.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when,
      glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment she
      saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought,
      &ldquo;There is no dinner! He said he would not come!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;the thing Alessandro had said would come? Were they to
      be driven out,&mdash;driven out this very day, when the Virgin had only
      just now seemed to promise her help and protection?
    </p>
    <p>
      The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her
      breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in her
      arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her, made an
      imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went back to the
      veranda and sat down to wait.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into
      Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still
      standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand,
      Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he seemed
      to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses' reins, came
      slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again he made the same
      authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she seated herself,
      trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now sometimes afraid of
      Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him, she dreaded, she knew not
      what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in the
      corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the house;
      walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid spot on each
      cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin. His eyes
      glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw from his
      pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and burst into a
      laugh more terrible than any weeping,&mdash;a laugh which wrung from her
      instantly, involuntarily, the cry, &ldquo;Oh, my Alessandro! my Alessandro! What
      is it? Are you mad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my sweet Majel,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been
      ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked up
      and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped midway
      in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro. Presently
      he came toward him, and said roughly, &ldquo;Look here! Be off, will you? This
      is my land. I'm going to build a house here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro had replied, &ldquo;This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours
      to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's tone
      and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood to him in
      the place of conscience and heart, and he said: &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and he waved his arm, describing a circle;
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months.
      Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over
      scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed to
      be given him now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see, Senor,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; He paused.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at being
      met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his tongue.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Senor is going to build a house?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; the man answered. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a wife and child, Senor,&rdquo; said Alessandro, still in the same calm,
      deliberate tone; &ldquo;and we have a very good house of two rooms. It would
      save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How far is it?&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;I can't tell exactly where the boundaries
      of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land,&rdquo;
       replied Alessandro. &ldquo;My house is farther west than your stakes; and I have
      large wheat-fields there, too,&mdash;many acres, Senor, all planted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the
      handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and
      wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for that
      purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat
      whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all in
      good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair means
      or foul.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose,&rdquo; said
      the man, insolently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!&rdquo; in a brutal sneer. &ldquo;You
      haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall hinder, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Still in the same calm tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'll you take?&rdquo; said the man, sullenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two hundred dollars,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you,&rdquo; said the
      man; &ldquo;and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know it,
      for buying out an Indian!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll do it,&rdquo; said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he
      counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all right?&rdquo; he said, as he put down the last piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the sum I said, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro. &ldquo;Tomorrow, at noon,
      you can come into the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where will you go?&rdquo; asked the man, again slightly touched by Alessandro's
      manner. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked them
      back. &ldquo;I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here,&rdquo; he said;
      and that ended the interview.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way,&rdquo; thought the man
      from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. &ldquo;I expect
      I should feel just so myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move about
      the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his
      restlessness was terrible to see. &ldquo;By sunrise, I would like to be off,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours.&rdquo;
       Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible
      laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than
      to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a
      year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her
      home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed voice,
      of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed him
      mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more feverish
      in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled; everything,
      except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, we must cook food for the journey,&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are we going?&rdquo; said the weeping Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like
      impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. &ldquo;Where? I know
      not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At sunrise
      we will start.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the
      village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it, as
      she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she could
      not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now?
    </p>
    <p>
      Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn,
      before a creature was stirring in the village,&mdash;the wagon piled high;
      Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was
      heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at
      Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. He
      knew all was wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a
      northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, &ldquo;Where does this road
      lead, Alessandro?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To San Jacinto,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back,
      Majella! Do not look back!&rdquo; he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming
      eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. &ldquo;Do not look back! It is gone!
      Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXI
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno
      house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had died
      away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old
      routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before.
      Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very Mexican
      whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done well;
      there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,&mdash;a thing for which
      the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan to hold
      him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had not been
      broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop would have
      been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this Mexican; he had a
      sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on the place had or
      fancied some reason for being set against him; some from sympathy with
      Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience; Margarita, most of
      all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita, between remorse about her
      young mistress and pique and disappointment about Alessandro, had become a
      very unhappy girl; and her mother, instead of comforting or soothing her,
      added to her misery by continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that
      Ramona had left in the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing
      came to fill it; there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned
      by some one; mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion,
      and regret. Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as
      she said, or had she fled with Alessandro?
    </p>
    <p>
      Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt
      sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and
      the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, &ldquo;and never a rail out
      of its place.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;disappeared, like any wild creatures, foxes or
      coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid of them. But the
      Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could not be! Heaven
      forbid!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself.&rdquo; said Juan Can. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; In some of his
      most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the
      changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and
      her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had
      been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora
      believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far
      from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to
      repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no
      longer to her desirable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet
      dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had heard
      the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was from
      Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother opened
      her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses as he
      read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the night,
      his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales seemed to
      drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of it. A shame! a
      cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had brought it on
      Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt as if he had been
      under a spell all along, not to have realized this. &ldquo;That's what I told my
      mother!&rdquo; he groaned,&mdash;&ldquo;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;&rdquo; and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing himself, ran down the
      veranda steps, to gain a little more time to think. He returned shortly,
      to meet his mother standing in the doorway, with pale, affrighted face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;Ramona is not here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; he replied in an angry tone. &ldquo;That is what I told you we
      should do,&mdash;drive her to running away with Alessandro!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With Alessandro!&rdquo; interrupted the Senora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Felipe,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less
      quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from
      the skies she would not surrender till she must.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How know you that it is with Alessandro?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because she has written it here!&rdquo; cried Felipe, defiantly holding up his
      little note. &ldquo;She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She writes like
      a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,&mdash;I, who drove her to
      steal out of my house like a thief!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The phrase, &ldquo;my house,&rdquo; smote the Senora's ear like a note from some other
      sphere, which indeed it was,&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!&rdquo; they cried. &ldquo;Thieves have been
      here in the night! Baba is gone,&mdash;Baba, and the Senorita's saddle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to
      Felipe, she said in a tone&mdash;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,&mdash;&ldquo;As
      you were saying, like a thief in the night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen
      Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his
      mother, &ldquo;For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!&mdash;What is
      that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come
      down, after breakfast, and look at it;&rdquo; and turning his back on them, he
      drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!&rdquo; retorted the
      Senora, at white heat. &ldquo;You may rear as many Indian families as you please
      under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Mother mia,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home,&rdquo; said the
      Senora, regaining herself a little. &ldquo;Had they no plans? Spoke she not in
      her letter of what they would do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was that
      this would be the best possible thing which could happen. &ldquo;Father
      Salvierderra will counsel them what to do,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; She paused. &ldquo;Not until I am dead,
      Felipe! It will not be long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his hair,
      and stroked it with passionate tenderness. &ldquo;My Felipe!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It was
      a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother! mother!&rdquo; he cried in anguish. &ldquo;I am yours,&mdash;wholly,
      devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not torture you more,&rdquo; she said wearily, in a feeble tone. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe sprang to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as
      soon as he was born!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror
      and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many
      days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over her
      as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion. She
      spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from despair.
      The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would take long.
      Yet she was dying, and she knew it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step
      only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much
      changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a
      time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should find
      them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he should
      find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the possibility
      of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help them, if need
      be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as he lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, &ldquo;You are so strong
      now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away long,&mdash;not
      over a week,&rdquo; she understood, and with a deep sigh replied: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      How was the Senora changed!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be, mother,&rdquo; said Felipe, &ldquo;or I would not leave you. I will set
      off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and
      there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. &ldquo;You must go, my son?&rdquo;
       she asked at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must, mother!&rdquo; and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her
      again and again. &ldquo;Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell.&rdquo; And she
      turned, that she might not see him go.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter.
      Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along
      the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to the
      description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen any
      such persons.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara
      Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra
      sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed
      with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in each
      hand. &ldquo;Welcome, my son!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Are all well? You find me very feeble
      just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have
      spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe
      exclaimed: &ldquo;Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. &ldquo;Ramona!&rdquo; he cried.
      &ldquo;Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing himself
      no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he known how
      well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character, and her almost
      unlimited power over all persons around her. Father Salvierderra was not
      shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for Alessandro. He regretted
      it, but he did not think it shame, as the Senora had done. As Felipe
      talked with him, he perceived even more clearly how bitter and unjust his
      mother had been to Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a noble young man,&rdquo; said Father Salvierderra. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly
      listened to the Father's words. &ldquo;I will not tarry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I cannot
      rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them,&rdquo; said the
      Father. &ldquo;God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them,
      Felipe;&rdquo; and he tottered into the church.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment and
      pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and
      Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention
      of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to
      look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days
      before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. But
      he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as the clew
      seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse on his return
      journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the beast; and before
      he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature was near spent. At
      the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save her strength. As he
      was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he suddenly saw an Indian's
      head peering over the ledge. He made signs to him to come down. The Indian
      turned his head, and spoke to some one behind; one after another a score
      of figures rose. They made signs to Felipe to come up. &ldquo;Poor things!&rdquo; he
      thought; &ldquo;they are afraid.&rdquo; He shouted to them that his horse was too
      tired to climb that wall; but if they would come down, he would give them
      money, holding up a gold-piece. They consulted among themselves; presently
      they began slowly descending, still halting at intervals, and looking
      suspiciously at him. He held up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as
      they could see his face distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no
      enemy's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply to
      Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught the
      word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This woman has seen Alessandro,&rdquo; said the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; said Felipe, breathlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Temecula, two weeks ago,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask her if he had any one with him,&rdquo; said Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;He was alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. &ldquo;Alone!&rdquo; What did this mean! He
      reflected. The woman watched him. &ldquo;Is she sure he was alone; there was no
      one with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he riding a big black horse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, a white horse,&rdquo; answered the woman, promptly. &ldquo;A small white horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle
      this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. &ldquo;Ask her if
      she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All night,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;He spent the night where she did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe despaired. &ldquo;Does she know where he is now?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She does not know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he say when he would come back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does she know him well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As well as her own brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of
      his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. &ldquo;I am
      sorry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;&rdquo; and he
      rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made as
      if she would run after him, but checked herself. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a
      moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,&mdash;the breath of a
      loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very ill when
      she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely, sorrowing
      Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away to the
      North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from speaking
      Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again. As soon as
      he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never cease searching
      till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when Felipe entered his
      mother's presence, his first look in her face told him that he would not
      leave her side again until he had laid her at rest in the tomb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God! you have come, Felipe,&rdquo; she said in a feeble voice. &ldquo;I had
      begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am going
      to leave you, my son;&rdquo; and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,&mdash;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. &ldquo;If Father
      Salvierderra would only come!&rdquo; she groaned. &ldquo;He could give me peace. If
      only I can live till he comes again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would
      never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept.
      Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished to
      put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To whom
      should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest within reach
      that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her instructions, &ldquo;the
      Church,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better so,&rdquo; was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still
      deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she
      resolved, &ldquo;To-morrow I will tell Felipe;&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;blessed child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the
      Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year
      had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother, and
      haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura
      doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing
      remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more all
      would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so loved
      and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness and
      devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days, the
      sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My adorable Felipe!&rdquo; she would murmur. &ldquo;What a son hast thou been!&rdquo; And,
      &ldquo;My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?&rdquo; Felipe would reply, bowing
      his head on her hands,&mdash;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,&mdash;knew even
      better than those around her. As she regained consciousness, she gasped,
      &ldquo;Felipe! Alone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He understood, and waved the rest away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone!&rdquo; she said again, turning her eyes to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave the room,&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;all&mdash;wait outside;&rdquo; and he closed the
      door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to go
      out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery, rather
      than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw with the
      terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make him, even
      after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue of
      Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving upon
      her, she said, &ldquo;Felipe&mdash;behind that statue&mdash;look!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, &ldquo;Nothing is there,
      dearest mother. Be calm. I am here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry the
      secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? &ldquo;No! no! Felipe&mdash;there
      is a door there&mdash;secret door. Look! Open! I must tell you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger,&rdquo; he said. As
      he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright in
      the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door, her
      eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass his
      lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing aloud
      as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion, Felipe,
      with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place. Even then a
      premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son, to find behind
      that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died with that look of
      anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad duties of the next four
      days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent of this premonition. The
      funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could not hold the
      quarter part of those who came, from far and near. Everybody wished to do
      honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura and one from San Luis
      Obispo were there. When all was done, they bore the Senora to the little
      graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by the side of her husband and her
      children; silent and still at last, the restless, passionate, proud, sad
      heart! When, the night after the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe
      going into his mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered, &ldquo;Oh, he must
      not! He will break his heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: &ldquo;Dear Senor
      Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he put her gently by, saying, &ldquo;I would rather be here, good Marda;&rdquo;
       and went in and locked the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried
      his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe the
      tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the
      jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was in
      entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he sat
      motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul was
      wrung.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she thought that shame, and not this!&rdquo; he said bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find her,
      and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it must
      go to the Santa Barbara College.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church,&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh, shame!
      oh, disgrace!&rdquo; From the grave in which Felipe had buried his mother now,
      was no resurrection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and
      wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling him
      of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies would
      belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to Juan
      Canito, saying: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?&rdquo; asked the old man, piteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell, Juan,&rdquo; replied Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!&rdquo; exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been
      for two years. &ldquo;Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy
      till now, I have had no thought except for your house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she known
      the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of the
      gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping behind
      her body borne to burial.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;My God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXII
    </h2>
    <p>
      DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they
      scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on
      his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious
      fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response.
      After they were camped for the night, she said, &ldquo;Dear Alessandro, will you
      not tell me where we are going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her
      tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could.
      &ldquo;Dear Alessandro,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked horror-stricken at the thought. &ldquo;Go live among the white
      people!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino
      and other places,&rdquo; she persisted. &ldquo;Why could not we do as they do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said bitterly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is Saboba,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San
      Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky
      over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern part
      of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and golden.
      It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto Mountain
      shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of rubies. The glow
      seemed preternatural.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behold San Jacinto!&rdquo; cried Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona exclaimed in delight. &ldquo;It is an omen!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We are going into
      the sunlight, out of the shadow;&rdquo; and she glanced back at the west, which
      was of a slaty blackness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like it not!&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;The shadow follows too fast!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and
      tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses
      across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He urged
      the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much even for
      Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded wagon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we
      could but reach it!&rdquo; groaned Alessandro. &ldquo;Majella, you and the child will
      freeze.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is warm on my breast,&rdquo; said Ramona; &ldquo;but, Alessandro, what ice in
      this wind! It is like a knife at my back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast
      thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did,&rdquo; said Ramona, her teeth
      chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would rather it blew than not,&rdquo; said Alessandro; &ldquo;it will carry the
      snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than in
      the night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as
      Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,&mdash;this strange
      opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently the
      rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The horses
      stopped; refused to go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are lost, if we stay here!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;Come, my Benito, come!&rdquo;
       and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back into the
      road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank within her.
      She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she hold the baby
      safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the wind had risen
      again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like making headway
      among whirling snow-drifts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will die,&rdquo; thought Ramona. &ldquo;Perhaps it is as well!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Sorry ter handle yer so
      rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fire!&rdquo; Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put
      the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried to
      rise from her seat; but she could not move.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Set still! set still!&rdquo; said the strange voice. &ldquo;I'll jest carry the baby
      ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up on yer
      feet;&rdquo; and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously disturbed
      from her warm sleep, began to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. &ldquo;The child is
      alive! Majella!&rdquo; he called.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro,&rdquo; she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice like
      a distant echo past him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral than
      Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten travellers had
      reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it. Just as he felt his
      strength failing him, and had thought to himself, in almost the same
      despairing words as Ramona, &ldquo;This will end all our troubles,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;a
      lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, &ldquo;Wall, stranger, I allow
      yer inter trouble,&rdquo; were as intelligible to Alessandro as if they had been
      spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!&rdquo; thought Jeff Hyer to
      himself. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; And as he put the
      crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human
      creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this,&rdquo; replied the
      woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its
      first touch, and ceased crying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!&rdquo; she exclaimed, as she looked
      into the baby's face. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better see't th' mother fust, Ri,&rdquo; said Jeff, leading, half carrying,
      Ramona into the hut. &ldquo;She's nigh abaout froze stiff!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for
      Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered.
      It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the corner
      of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose bright
      eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his disease. The
      woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened and wrinkled,
      gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair wound in a
      careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying over her
      forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite of her
      careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity in her
      bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and warmed hearts
      at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and as she fixed them
      on Ramona, she thought to herself, &ldquo;This ain't no common Mexican, no how.&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Be ye movers?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not included.
      &ldquo;Ah, Senora,&rdquo; she said regretfully, &ldquo;I cannot talk in the English speech;
      only in Spanish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;fur warm climate! 'pears like it,
      don't it?&rdquo; and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of ineffable
      tenderness at the sick man. &ldquo;Ask her who they be, Jos,&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona,
      said in Spanish, &ldquo;My mother asks if you are travellers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;We have come all the way from San Diego. We are
      Indians.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Injuns!&rdquo; ejaculated Jos's mother. &ldquo;Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly took
      in Injuns? What on airth&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing. Almost
      she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had never
      before heard so many English sentences without being able to understand
      one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest words, that
      she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, &ldquo;I know very
      little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it tire you to
      interpret to me what your mother said?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos was as full of humor as his mother. &ldquo;She wants me to tell her what you
      wuz sayin',&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't she'll
      like best.&mdash;My mother says you can stay here with us till the storm
      is over,&rdquo; he said to Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried it
      to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion.
      &ldquo;Thanks! thanks! Senora!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it she calls me, Jos?&rdquo; asked his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;It only means the same as lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title of
      Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him both
      names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally said, &ldquo;I
      like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, &ldquo;aout here 'n thes wilderness
      to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's lots doos, mammy,&rdquo; replied Jos, affectionately. &ldquo;Yer'd find out
      fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air
      ter everybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to her
      breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she now saw
      was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which raged
      outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked together
      for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and many of the
      boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at every blast of
      the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were burning a few sticks
      of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer had hastily collected
      before the storm reached its height. A few more sticks lay by the hearth.
      Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor provision for a night in the
      snow. &ldquo;Be ye warm, Jos?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not very, mammy,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's
      somethin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had
      always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered from it
      as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern Tennessee a
      more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs. But there was
      no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking, it was &ldquo;jest like
      aour luck,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;What good luck 'Lizy was married last year! Now
      there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm 'n goin' right off.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;to spell&rdquo; the horses,
      and a cow to give milk for Jos, they drove before them; and so they had
      come by slow stages, sometimes camping for a week at a time, all the way
      from Tennessee to the San Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was
      getting well. Another six months, they thought, would see him cured; and
      it would have gone hard with any one who had tried to persuade either
      Jefferson or Maria Hyer that they were not as lucky a couple as could be
      found. Had they not saved Joshua, their son?
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly
      like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the
      lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all
      their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one
      will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean,
      quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having heard
      her name, &ldquo;Maria,&rdquo; in full; as a child, and until she was married, she was
      simply &ldquo;Ri;&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Aunt
      Ri.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not,&rdquo; she said
      reflectively; &ldquo;ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come
      short o' wood, thet's clear.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;The saints be praised, my Majella! It
      is a miracle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. &ldquo;Ef they ain't Catholics!&rdquo; he
      thought. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well
      acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of
      friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jeff,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri,&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her
      ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two of
      narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond bands or
      families they had encountered in their journey across the plains. Here she
      found herself sitting side by side in friendly intercourse with an Indian
      man and Indian woman, whose appearance and behavior were attractive;
      towards whom she felt herself singularly drawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm free to confess, Jos,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro
      without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now there
      was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which made
      its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason. She had
      hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt with her.
      She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a solid
      expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be all gone by noon to-morrow,&rdquo; said Alessandro to Jos, who was
      dreading the next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not really!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will see,&rdquo; said Alessandro. &ldquo;I have often known it thus. It is like
      death while it lasts; but it is never long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the
      valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters for
      Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their
      primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great
      anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's
      anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there was
      good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro knew
      the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he was
      rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide in hunting
      expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion; companionship, she
      was sure, would do Alessandro good,&mdash;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, &ldquo;one of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A few days saw the two families settled,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Oh, this will do very well, when it is
      repaired a little,&rdquo; his face was convulsed, and he turned away; but he
      said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, and there
      were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it. Alessandro
      had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the earth floor;
      a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung on the walls,
      served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico canopy was again
      set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red manzanita frame,
      stood near. A small window in the door, and one more cut in the walls, let
      in light and air. On a shelf near one of these windows stood the little
      Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San Pasquale.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put both
      arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her eyes full
      of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation: &ldquo;Wall, I
      allow yer air fixed up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had the
      expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not
      understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood it.
      On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri had
      been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which had
      never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and it could
      not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the good-hearted
      wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate disorderly
      genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when, one day, after
      the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly successful hunt, the
      two families had sat down together to a supper of Ramona's cooking,&mdash;stewed
      venison and artichokes, and frijoles with chili,&mdash;their wonder was
      still greater.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;I never
      thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona laughed. &ldquo;No; it is Mexican,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I learned to cook from an
      old Mexican woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the
      time to fuss with it,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri; &ldquo;but I may's well git the rule, naow
      I'm here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He had
      been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona
      cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion
      Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake in
      him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in the
      village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little
      handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large;
      their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and two
      or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd the
      Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, and there
      was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was content.
      Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin to it,
      began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house; Majella
      should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when he spoke
      of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not Alessandro
      comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before building.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away on
      his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had gone
      to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or lace
      for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She did not
      believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say, &ldquo;If there
      is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock before winter
      is over.&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said another; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it
      locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning
      and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring
      in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the
      bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating
      ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated fields,&mdash;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. &ldquo;And the Ravallos would surely never let that be done,&rdquo; thought
      Ramona. &ldquo;While they live, it will not happen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled up
      their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months had
      stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters had
      seemed to do such good to Jos. But, &ldquo;We ain't rich folks, yer know, not by
      a long ways, we ain't,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it hard?&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Could I learn to do it?&rdquo; It was wonderful
      what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in
      these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly to
      her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most of our people haven't had any chance,&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to
      Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast;
      she found no words to express her indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it.&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it's the people in Washington that have done it,&rdquo; said Ramona,
      sadly. &ldquo;Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bleeve so!&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, &ldquo;Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't, makes
      the laws?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bleeve so.&rdquo; said Jos. &ldquo;They make some, at any rate. I donno's they make
      'em all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all done by the American law,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. &ldquo;I sh'll make a business o'
      findin' out abaout this thing yit,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I think yer hain't got the
      rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's all cheating.&rdquo; said Ramona; &ldquo;but there isn't any help for it, Aunt
      Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm an Ummeriken!&rdquo; cried Aunt Ri; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for
      want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to do
      something. &ldquo;I ain't nobody,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I know thet well enough,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands
      and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby
      had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for
      Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday no
      loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the
      spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that she
      had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill in the
      snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before that,
      she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her pinched
      little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a feeble
      wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies that Aunt
      Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact, Aunt Ri from the
      first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's symptoms. Day after
      day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands clasped, his face set. Hour
      after hour, night and day, indoors and out, he bore her in his arms,
      trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer to the Virgin, to the
      saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, though money was now
      scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in vain. At last she
      implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a doctor. &ldquo;Find Aunt
      Ri,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San
      Bernardino. &ldquo;Not to rights yit,&rdquo; she said,&mdash;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,&mdash;a
      floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and a roof; one
      small square window,&mdash;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. &ldquo;I wouldn't hev bleeved they hed so
      many rags besides what they're wearin',&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, as sack after sack
      appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri had gathered up the threads of
      the village life; in her friendly, impressionable way she had come into
      relation with scores of people, and knew who was who, and what was what,
      and why, among them all, far better than many an old resident of the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from her
      high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before
      Alessandro had dismounted, cried: &ldquo;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,&mdash;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'!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said. He
      looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English he
      tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the door
      bringing a doctor!
    </p>
    <p>
      Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as
      interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new
      phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened with
      trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt Ri's
      voluble narrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's
      errand he listened indifferently, and then said, &ldquo;Is he an Agency Indian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A what?&rdquo; exclaimed Aunt Ri.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?&rdquo; said the doctor,
      impatiently. &ldquo;You ought to have taken him to the Agent first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?&rdquo; asked Aunt Ri,
      wrathfully. &ldquo;Thet's what I heerd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;&rdquo;
       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;
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor
      said, &ldquo;Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will help
      her;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;That will do her good, I guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, Senor, thanks,&rdquo; said Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor stared. &ldquo;That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this
      office,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's that, Jos?&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, as they went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Donno!&rdquo; said Jos. &ldquo;I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would it
      make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great
      Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man, who
      had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale farm
      for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri
      felt herself more at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv,&rdquo; she said, with a wave of
      her hand toward Alessandro. &ldquo;We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some
      metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did
      so, &ldquo;The man's never been here before, has he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is his name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. &ldquo;Stop him.&rdquo;
       cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. &ldquo;Don't let him write, till I know
      what he puts my name in his book for!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait,&rdquo; said Jos. &ldquo;He doesn't want you to write his name in that book. He
      wants to know what it's put there for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying to
      speak kindly, the Agent said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, don't it?&rdquo; said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Agent laughed in spite of himself. &ldquo;Well, Aunt Ri,&rdquo;&mdash;she was
      already &ldquo;Aunt Ri&rdquo; to the Agent's boys,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro understood the words &ldquo;my Indians.&rdquo; He had heard them before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?&rdquo; he asked fiercely. &ldquo;I will not
      have my name in his book if it makes me his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no.&rdquo; cried Aunt Ri. &ldquo;Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll make
      him understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly
      suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites
      except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was
      impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple
      and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. &ldquo;Let us go!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I do not wish
      to sign any paper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!&rdquo; said Aunt
      Ri. &ldquo;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?&rdquo; she added, turning to the Agent.
      &ldquo;Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the Agency
      books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his
      baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name be
      written, rather than that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him write the name, then,&rdquo; said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went out
      of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too
      feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the
      Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to his
      mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to ride.
      Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry him there
      in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's
      name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had written it,&mdash;for
      this and nothing else,&mdash;to save the baby's life. Having thus enrolled
      himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on this the Agency
      doctor. And that his application might be all in due form, he took with
      him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, before, that Aunt Ri's
      kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not one unnecessary word, was
      Alessandro's motto.
    </p>
    <p>
      To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride
      thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild
      statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing,
      when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father
      expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in the
      office. &ldquo;Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks the
      Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. &ldquo;Do
      you understand English?&rdquo; he asked sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very little, Senor,&rdquo; replied Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it most
      emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not only out of
      the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the child's sake
      he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no such horse in San
      Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one would not know he was in
      motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor come down and look at the
      horse? Then he would see what it would be like to ride him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;I know
      they can run.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came
      into his eyes. &ldquo;It is our only child, Senor,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It will take you
      but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the
      child dies, she will die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no!&rdquo; The doctor was weary of being importuned. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will not go?&rdquo; asked Alessandro.
    </p>
    <p>
      The interpreter shook his head. &ldquo;He cannot,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. &ldquo;Ask him
      if he will come for money?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have gold at home. I will pay him,
      what the white men pay him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!&rdquo; said
      the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard
      the coarse laugh, and the words, &ldquo;Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?&rdquo; which
      followed his departure from the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart seemed
      breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon; she was
      plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the cradle, from
      the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment for the hoped-for
      aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor would not come. She
      had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro the account of the
      appointment by the Government of these two men to look after the Indians'
      interests. What else could their coming mean, except that, at last, the
      Indians were to have justice? She thought, in her simplicity, that the
      doctor must have died, since Alessandro was riding home alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would not come!&rdquo; said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse,
      wearily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would not!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Would not! Did you not say the Government had
      sent him to be the doctor for Indians?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was what they said,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She shall not die!&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;We will carry her to him!&rdquo; The thought
      struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of it before?
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had
      ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the
      child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know?
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready,
      ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she
      smiled. &ldquo;The first smile she has given for days,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Oh, the
      air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba! Dear
      Baba!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. &ldquo;Never, Majella!
      How dared you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare anything now!&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Majella,&rdquo; said the logical Alessandro, &ldquo;it was because I could not
      leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,&rdquo;
       said Ramona, confidently.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were
      really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling
      mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to love,
      all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But it was only
      the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, closed; a
      strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. He was now
      walking, Ramona riding Benito. &ldquo;Majella!&rdquo; he cried, in a tone which told
      her all.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the dying
      child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her mother;
      a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of agony swept over
      the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were heart-rending.
      Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove to caress her. She
      stretched her arms up towards the sky. &ldquo;I have killed her! I have killed
      her!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Oh, let me die!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!&rdquo;
       gasped Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since his
      first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have forgotten
      her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned to stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran
      hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its
      hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it
      again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed out
      prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, his arms
      folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still without
      speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned aloud,
      and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's coffin.
      Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed, she dressed
      the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then laying her in
      the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought altar-cloth. As
      she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the time when she
      embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song of the finches,
      the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro sitting on the
      steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that she,&mdash;that girl
      who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful altar-cloth? Was
      it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it Alessandro yonder,
      driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows rang, louder and louder!
      The air seemed deafening full of sound. With her hands pressed to her
      temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful unconsciousness set her
      free, for an interval, from her anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had lifted
      her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought she
      would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his lethargy.
      When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak. She closed
      them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. &ldquo;I heard you out
      there,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;It is done.&rdquo; And he pointed to a little box of rough
      boards by the side of the cradle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Alessandro, I am ready,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will hide forever,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It makes no difference,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never
      come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of
      San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba
      people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites, and
      be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. But
      now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight of the
      dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had covered the
      box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over it fell in
      folds to the floor. &ldquo;Why does not this mother weep? Is she like the
      whites, who have no heart?&rdquo; said the Saboba mothers among themselves; and
      they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what to say. Ramona
      perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them. Benumbing terrors,
      which were worse than her grief, were crowding Ramona's heart now. She had
      offended the Virgin; she had committed a blasphemy: in one short hour the
      Virgin had punished her, had smitten her child dead before her eyes. And
      now Alessandro was going mad; hour by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes
      in him. What form would the Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let
      Alessandro become a raging madman, and finally kill both himself and her?
      That seemed to Ramona the most probable fate in store for them. When the
      funeral was over, and they returned to their desolate home, at the sight
      of the empty cradle Ramona broke down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere, so
      it is not here!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told her
      of?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she replied earnestly. &ldquo;No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me
      away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San Pasquale
      again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly at work,
      planning the details of their move and of the new life. He mentioned them
      one after another to Ramona. They could not take both horses; feed would
      be scanty there, and there would be no need of two horses. The cow also
      they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and the meat, dried, would
      last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped he could sell; and he would
      buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live well in these heights to which
      they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, very safe; not only against
      whites, who, because the little valley was so small and bare, would not
      desire it, but against Indians also. For the Indians, silly things, had a
      terror of the upper heights of San Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived
      there, and money would not hire one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as
      this valley which Alessandro had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each
      one of these features of safety in their hiding-place. &ldquo;The first time I
      saw it, Majella,&mdash;I believe the saints led me there,&mdash;I said, it
      is a hiding-place. And then I never thought I would be in want of such,&mdash;of
      a place to keep my Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!&rdquo; And he clasped her
      to his breast with a terrifying passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was not
      an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard work to
      give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the wagon for
      quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to so much as
      name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt
      unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting from
      their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses and
      wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the
      winter.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if he
      could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the chance.
      &ldquo;He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majella is wiser than the dove!&rdquo; cried Alessandro. &ldquo;She has seen what is
      the best thing to do. I will take them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but with
      a look of horror she refused. &ldquo;Never,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be intolerable,
      spite of all its affectionate kindliness. &ldquo;Tell her I love her,&rdquo; she said,
      &ldquo;but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year perhaps we will go
      down,&mdash;if there is any other way besides that road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling. It
      rankled deep. &ldquo;I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern horizon
      of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door of the
      little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat there hour
      after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the heavy treadle,
      and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with tender yearnings
      at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote it, it glowed like
      fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos,&rdquo; Aunt Ri would say.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very
      thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet strong
      enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San Bernardino. But
      the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at present out of
      their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish was to have, at
      the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one. They had tried in
      vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one suitable for light
      work. &ldquo;'Pears like I'd die o' shame,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, &ldquo;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,&mdash;'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went
      hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came
      towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since
      the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,&mdash;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,&mdash;a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest of deaths; but
      they would have each other. It was well the baby had died; she was saved
      all this misery. By the time she had grown to be a woman, if she had
      lived, there would be no place in all the country where an Indian could
      find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as these, Alessandro went up into
      the canon one morning. It must be done. Everything was ready for their
      move; it would take many days to carry even their few possessions up the
      steep mountain trail to their new home; the pony which had replaced Benito
      and Baba could not carry a heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona
      would dry the beef which would be their supply of meat for many months.
      Then they would go.
    </p>
    <p>
      At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began
      cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying.
      Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona
      went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from
      house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out
      excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them
      darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. &ldquo;Hide it! hide it!&rdquo; she cried,
      breathless; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not hide it!&rdquo; cried Ramona, indignantly. &ldquo;It is our own cow.
      Alessandro killed it to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They won't believe you!&rdquo; said the woman, in distress. &ldquo;They'll take it
      all away. Oh, hide some of it!&rdquo; And she dragged a part of it across the
      floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened
      the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed: &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; And he called Ramona by a vile epithet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came
      forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. &ldquo;Out of my house, you dogs of
      the white color!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;This meat is our own; my husband killed the
      creature but this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they
      had all swarmed into the little room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Merrill,&rdquo; said one of them, &ldquo;hold on; the squaw says her husband
      only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona turned on him like lightning. &ldquo;Are you liars, you all,&rdquo; she cried,
      &ldquo;that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is not an
      Indian in this village would steal cattle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and at
      that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian woman
      had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and lifting the
      deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there. &ldquo;Perhaps, when
      you know Injun's well's I do,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo; and he stooped to drag the meat out. &ldquo;Give us a hand here, Jake!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you touch it, I will kill you!&rdquo; cried Ramona, beside herself with
      rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hoity-toity!&rdquo; cried Jake, stepping back; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!&rdquo; muttered Merrill, as he
      dragged the meat out from beneath the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all this?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What is
      all this?&rdquo; he repeated. He knew very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's that Temecula man,&rdquo; said one of the men, in a low tone, to Merrill.
      &ldquo;If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come here. You're
      up the wrong tree, sure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to
      confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that he had
      made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him. Alessandro
      could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which stood at the
      door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat rolled in the
      hide, he said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's so!&rdquo; cried the men, gathering around him. &ldquo;How did you know? Who
      did it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her
      shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were
      cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look on;
      she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the type of
      outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt a certain
      enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse of searchers
      for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the stolen steer, he
      maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At last, angry, ashamed,
      with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his obstinacy, they rode away.
      Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was trembling. Her hands were like
      ice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go to the mountain to-night!&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;Take me where I need
      never see a white face again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as he
      did.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no house,&rdquo;
       he said; &ldquo;and I must go and come many times, before all the things can be
      carried.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona,
      bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with which
      the man Jake had looked at her. &ldquo;Oh! I cannot stay here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to
      take double at once; then we can go sooner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was it stole that man's steer?&rdquo; said Ramona. &ldquo;Why did you not tell
      them? They looked as if they would kill you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal cattle,&rdquo;
       said Ramona, indignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was not true, Majella,&rdquo; replied Alessandro, sadly. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did they not make him give them up?&rdquo; cried Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to
      Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was
      haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one
      pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of
      the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day she
      saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door, looked
      in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's instinct was
      right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his mind to settle
      in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and he wished to have
      an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his house. Over in Santa
      Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an Indian mistress for
      three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa Ysabel, he had given the
      woman a hundred dollars and a little house for herself and her child. And
      she was not only satisfied, but held herself, in consequence of this
      temporary connection with a white man, much above her Indian relatives and
      friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry her, she had replied
      scornfully that she would never marry an Indian; she might marry another
      white man, but an Indian,&mdash;never. Nobody had held his brother in any
      less esteem for this connection; it was quite the way in the country. And
      if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw he had ever seen, to come and
      live with him in a smaller fashion, he would consider himself a lucky man,
      and also think he was doing a good thing for the squaw. It was all very
      clear and simple in his mind; and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the
      village one morning, he overtook her, and walking by her side began to
      sound her on the subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona
      trembled as he approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at
      him; but he, in his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you married to your husband?&rdquo; he finally said. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;Beast!&rdquo;
       she said, and spat towards him; then turned and fled to the nearest house,
      where she sank on the floor and burst into tears, saying that the man
      below there in the road had been rude to her. Yes, the women said, he was
      a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona said no word to Alessandro.
      She dared not; she believed he would kill Jake.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and the
      indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she stood
      on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing around,
      looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce the sky,
      looking down upon the world,&mdash;it seemed the whole world, so limitless
      it stretched away at her feet,&mdash;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: &ldquo;At
      last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is
      joy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can Majella be content?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can almost be glad, Alessandro!&rdquo; she cried, inspired by the glorious
      scene. &ldquo;I dreamed not it was like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to make
      it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the mountain's
      side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower than the
      eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of rocks and
      tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself made the
      southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly vertical, and
      covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years on the mountain and
      not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out a crystal spring, which
      trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy green, the entire length of
      the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the lower end, and came out no
      more; many times Alessandro had searched for it lower down, but could find
      no trace of it. During the summer, when he was hunting with Jeff, he had
      several times climbed the wall and descended it on the inner side, to see
      if the rivulet still ran; and, to his joy, had found it the same in July
      as in January. Drought could not harm it, then. What salvation in such a
      spring! And the water was pure and sweet as if it came from the skies.
    </p>
    <p>
      A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening
      out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and
      under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations of
      Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone indeed, for
      it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that Indians had
      ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to be certain
      death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to go far up
      its sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both Alessandro
      and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was soothed. She
      did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer to the sky.
      They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house, till the wheat
      and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised, when he came to the
      ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The valley thrust itself, in
      inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its southern wall; lovely
      sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to wound the soft,
      flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the planting was done, he
      began to fell trees for the house. No mournful gray adobe this time, but
      walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left on; alternate yellow and
      brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. The roof, of thatch, tule,
      and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, was carried out several feet in
      front of the house, making a sort of bower-like veranda, supported by
      young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once more Ramona would sit under a
      thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little corral for the sheep, and a rough
      shed for the pony, and the home was complete: far the prettiest home they
      had ever had. And here, in the sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat
      Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant willow twigs a cradle. The one over which
      she had wept such bitter tears in the valley, they had burned the night
      before they left their Saboba home. It was in early autumn she sat
      plaiting this cradle. The ground around was strewn with wild grapes
      drying; the bees were feasting on them in such clouds that Ramona rose
      frequently from her work to drive them away, saying, as she did so, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and as she spoke, her
      imagination sped fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have
      forgiven her, to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy!
      Spite of poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and
      oppression could do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her
      arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same whose
      house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona. She was
      friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully came to be as
      a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona saw in her
      always the picture of what her own mother might perchance be, wandering,
      suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning, filial instinct
      found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, aged one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's birth.
      Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but Ramona felt no
      fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in his arms, she
      said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles, &ldquo;See, beloved!
      The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's face,
      he sighed, and said, &ldquo;Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not yours!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad of it,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;I was glad the first minute I saw it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head. &ldquo;It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;They look ever on woe;&rdquo; and he laid the baby back on Ramona's
      breast, and stood gazing sadly at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Alessandro,&rdquo; said Ramona, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That is true. Worse things will come.&rdquo; And he walked
      away, with his head sunk deep on his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep. His
      passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne, the
      hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on the
      probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed itself as
      by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might have saved
      him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained, reticent, repressed
      nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell on what hour or what
      day her terrible fears first changed to an even more terrible certainty,
      his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread of which he had cried out the
      morning they left San Pasquale, came upon him. Strangely enough, and
      mercifully, now that it had really come, he did not know it. He knew that
      he suddenly came to his consciousness sometimes, and discovered himself in
      strange and unexplained situations; had no recollection of what had
      happened for an interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought it was
      only a sort of sickness; he did not know that during those intervals his
      acts were the acts of a madman; never violent, aggressive, or harmful to
      any one; never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these intervals
      his delusions were always shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life.
      Sometimes he fancied that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they
      were carrying off Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would
      run with maniac swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground,
      and slowly regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he
      believed he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw,
      where there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to
      passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on
      being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he
      suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose
      he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he
      buried his head in his hands. &ldquo;What has happened to my memory?&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;I must be ill of a fever!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my goats, but
      I thought you'd bring 'em back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not
      interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of the time.
      He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best horse-breaker; and
      his services were always in demand, spite of the risk there was of his
      having at any time one of these attacks of wandering. His absences were a
      great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness in which it left her,
      but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental disorder might at any time
      take a more violent and dangerous shape. This anxiety was all the more
      harrowing because she must keep it locked in her own breast, her wise and
      loving instinct telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him than
      the knowledge of his real condition. More than once he reached home,
      breathless, panting, the sweat rolling off his face, crying aloud, &ldquo;The
      Americans have found us out, Majella! They were on the trail! I baffled
      them. I came up another way.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed
      Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for
      him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her.
      But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And, still
      more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing
      what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on this
      mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their
      fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. The
      goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the sheep
      were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer. The
      spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew along
      its edges thick as in beds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its mother
      had never known sorrow. &ldquo;One would think she had suckled pain,&rdquo; thought
      Ramona, &ldquo;so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin has kept
      her well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night and
      day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the Madonna
      and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth of all
      their delicate chasing.
    </p>
    <p>
      At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San
      Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the
      baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the letter
      to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her from San
      Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what she should
      say and how she should send it,&mdash;she, who had never had in her loyal,
      transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since they were
      wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he would thank her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its
      being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen as
      she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a
      confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete, it
      was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely wrought in
      open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed. No baby would
      there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and Alessandro had at
      last given his consent that the name should be Majella. It was a reluctant
      consent, yielded finally only to please Ramona; and, contrary to her wont,
      she had been willing in this instance to have her own wish fulfilled
      rather than his. Her heart was set upon having the seal of baptism added
      to the name she so loved; and, &ldquo;If I were to die,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;how glad
      Alessandro would be, to have still a Majella!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated
      herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days
      away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for the
      trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the
      appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety
      increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before
      he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the
      horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. &ldquo;Why comes he riding like
      that?&rdquo; she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw to her
      surprise that he was riding a new horse. &ldquo;Why, Alessandro!&rdquo; she cried.
      &ldquo;What horse is this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his own
      horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect his
      thoughts. &ldquo;Where is my horse, then?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God! Alessandro,&rdquo; cried Ramona. &ldquo;Take the horse back instantly. They
      will say you stole it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I left my pony there in the corral,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary
      punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. &ldquo;Oh, let me take it
      back, dear!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;Let me go down with it. They will believe me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majella!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was evidently
      still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of danger
      oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her own hands
      rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse; Alessandro had
      evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for his sides were
      steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood in Ramona's eyes as
      she did what she could for him. He recognized her good-will, and put his
      nose to her face. &ldquo;It must be because he was black like Benito, that
      Alessandro took him,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Oh, Mary Mother, help us to get the
      creature safe back!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced at the
      sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could Alessandro
      go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point of waking him,
      when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs roused him
      instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran out to see
      what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,&mdash;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. &ldquo;That'll teach you damned Indians to leave off stealing our
      horses!&rdquo; he cried, and with another volley of terrible oaths was out of
      sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief,
      Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in hers.
      There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been fatal, close
      to his heart,&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;Thank God.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the ground is now watered by the blood of a
      martyr!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The blood of a martyr!&rdquo; The words seemed to float in the air; to cleanse
      it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. &ldquo;My Alessandro!&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed martyrs; they will
      listen to what a martyr says.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;the
      village of the Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She
      had once been there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There
      was no human help nearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him,
      whispered, &ldquo;Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring
      friends.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;No, Capitan,&rdquo; she said; and leading him back to the body, she
      took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said, &ldquo;Capitan,
      watch here.&rdquo; With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and stretched
      himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his eyes
      followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped,
      baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn, her
      face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she made
      her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur after
      spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her heart
      sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro had
      been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered wherever
      they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her that she was
      lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with Alessandro; for
      fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake, she
      must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just as it had grown so
      dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before her, and was panting
      more from terror than from running, lights suddenly gleamed out, only a
      few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a few moments she was
      there.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,&mdash;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,&mdash;veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and
      independent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been
      murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with
      her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place. The
      people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona had
      taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon as she
      had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the floor,
      fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in time to
      save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for it, or
      noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to
      be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words enough to set
      the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and higher. Men were
      everywhere mounting their horses,&mdash;some to go up and bring
      Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to Jim
      Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of
      Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to
      refrain from such violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience
      had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
      that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like women,
      and do nothing, when a friend was murdered?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in vain,&rdquo;
       said the wise old man. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned their
      project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were to be
      heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more than one
      way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the valley.
      Alessandro should be avenged.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he
      revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he
      would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than
      if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This
      Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to look
      after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows in San
      Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so far as to
      arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to Indians. If he
      were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might be troublesome.
      Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make a show of good
      conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up at once to the
      nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man in self-defence,
      Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge Wells, a few miles
      below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender himself as having
      committed &ldquo;justifiable homicide&rdquo; on an Indian, or Mexican, he did net know
      which, who had stolen his horse. He told a plausible story. He professed
      not to know the man, or the place; but did not explain how it was, that,
      knowing neither, he had gone so direct to the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      He said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the
      prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six men
      to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early the next
      morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When they reached
      the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was locked; no signs left
      of the tragedy of the day before, except a few blood-stains on the ground,
      where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this
      unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he found that Judge Wells,
      instead of attempting to return to the valley that night, proposed to pass
      the night at a ranch only a few miles from the Cahuilla village, he became
      almost hysterical with fright. He declared that the Cahuillas would surely
      come and murder him in the night, and begged piteously that the men would
      all stay with him to guard him.
    </p>
    <p>
      At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and head
      men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his jury,
      and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of the
      murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they ought
      not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had taken
      place, and that now no inquest could be held.
    </p>
    <p>
      Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and heard
      the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first arrival.
      Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high fever and
      delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it on her breast.
      She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking incessantly,
      clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling snatches of
      prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token of
      consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes hide
      it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined;
      but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place
      immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his
      request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time for
      Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the Indians
      as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It was
      evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to last.
      Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from the
      door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously, were
      what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have spoken
      many words.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a
      merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business, on
      his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It was with
      a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the hour of
      the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar himself.
      That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This last
      outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been glad to
      have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts. But San
      Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as fixed
      standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of
      communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more than
      any man's political head was worth. The word &ldquo;justice&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable
      homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He comforted himself by thinking&mdash;what was no doubt true&mdash;that
      even if the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have
      been the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County
      jury that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if
      there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he
      derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also
      the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched
      Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death,
      could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have
      brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in
      possession of her senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had seen
      her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His children
      knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife had bought
      her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no one knew better
      than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as incapable of
      stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar knew it; everybody
      knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits of wandering mind;
      and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, he was wholly
      irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of Farrar's deed
      was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from having been forced
      up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable rage, and fired on
      the second, without knowing what he did. &ldquo;But he wouldn't have done it, if
      it hadn't been an Indian!&rdquo; mused the judge. &ldquo;He'd ha' thought twice before
      he shot any white man down, that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not
      shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if
      Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There
      might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered,
      unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in his
      own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The
      longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this
      purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would go
      to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to Ramona.
      Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXV
    </h2>
    <p>
      EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search
      for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the
      place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the
      town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the San
      Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him to
      search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another took
      refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then disappeared
      as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; equally in
      vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had heard
      of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain would have
      to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn his
      hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That might be,&rdquo; they said; &ldquo;nobody had ever heard of any such thing,
      however;&rdquo; and very much they all wondered what it was that made the
      handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he
      lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had
      sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he
      heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely
      watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager,
      searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children
      knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find.
      Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could look
      like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made no
      confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for an
      Indian named Alessandro Assis.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place, and
      turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the Franciscan
      Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California coast was the
      one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard Father Salvierderra
      say that there were in the neighborhood of each of the old Missions Indian
      villages, or families still living. He thought it not improbable that,
      from Alessandro's father's long connection with the San Luis Rey Mission,
      Alessandro might be known to some of these Indians. He would leave no
      stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; no Indian unquestioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San
      Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He had
      spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found Indians;
      miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart ached, and
      he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the old Mission
      buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder. Now Felipe
      understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and why his mother
      had been full of such fierce indignation against the heretic usurpers and
      despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans once held. He could not
      understand why the Church had submitted, without fighting, to such
      indignities and robberies. At every one of the Missions he heard harrowing
      tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who had clung to their
      congregations to the last, and died at their posts. At Soledad an old
      Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father Sarria, who had died there
      of starvation. &ldquo;He gave us all he had, to the last,&rdquo; said the old man. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew very
      little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they said. It
      was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They did not
      understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and the longer
      he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever gone to
      Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers at the
      College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father Salvierderra
      the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, that no traces
      had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to the last, they
      said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get any certainty in
      his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day before he died, he had
      said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian monk, to whom he was
      greatly attached.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible omen;
      and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart than before. He
      believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown, unconsecrated spot,
      never to be found; yet he would not give up the search. As he journeyed
      southward, he began to find persons who had known of Alessandro; and still
      more, those who had known his father, old Pablo. But no one had heard
      anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since the driving out of his people
      from Temecula; there was no knowing where any of those Temecula people
      were now. They had scattered &ldquo;like a flock of ducks,&rdquo; one Indian said,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he could
      not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he had
      gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large corner
      room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The room was
      dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous fireplace; a
      few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these lay the woman,
      evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the feet; the wind
      swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side of the wall; there
      was not an article of furniture. &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; thought Felipe, as he entered,
      &ldquo;a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole as this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the
      fire. &ldquo;I am sorry I have no candle, Senor,&rdquo; said the man, as he came
      forward. &ldquo;My wife is sick, and we are very poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. &ldquo;I only want to
      ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; the man replied in a dogged tone,&mdash;no man of Temecula
      could yet hear the word without a pang,&mdash;&ldquo;I was of Temecula.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I
      suppose,&rdquo; said Felipe, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second a
      bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But the
      swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which he could
      not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had recognized him.
      &ldquo;Ha, ha!&rdquo; he thought to himself. &ldquo;Senor Felipe Moreno, you come to the
      wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Antonio,&mdash;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,&mdash;Baba,
      fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in his forehead.
      Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a horse as that, with
      a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now, though near three years
      afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him. Of course it could be only
      the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he get from Antonio!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor, I knew him,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know where he is now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know where he went, from Temecula?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did you see him last?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Temecula.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever hear of his being married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Senor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like this, Senor,&rdquo; with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. &ldquo;Most of
      us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan Grande,
      some way down into Lower California.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the
      man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he said, &ldquo;I
      hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly disappointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno,&rdquo; thought Antonio. &ldquo;I am sorry,
      Senor,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous
      gold-piece, and said, &ldquo;Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see
      you so poorly off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful did
      he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they had
      fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the first
      duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second time
      help drifted away from Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence of
      Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst
      forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been
      alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale,
      where he had the promise of work.
    </p>
    <p>
      How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth. After
      long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed the time
      so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a terrible
      corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week after
      Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus, alone, on
      foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and she had lent
      him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but they had never
      sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, she had no more
      doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he would have come back
      to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that ever lived, was
      Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he not found him so
      always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro and his father. If
      there had been, it would have been better for their people. &ldquo;If they'd all
      been like Alessandro, I tell you,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it would have taken more
      than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of their homes here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?&rdquo; asked Felipe.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe asked to see the violin. &ldquo;But that is not Alessandro's,&rdquo; he
      exclaimed. &ldquo;I have seen his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell her
      the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at first.
      She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang to her feet,
      and cried: &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished
      as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might
      yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel,&rdquo; he said as
      he rode away; &ldquo;and we will come by this road and stop to see you.&rdquo; And the
      very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San Pasquale.
    </p>
    <p>
      But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a
      perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the
      village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the
      remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro,
      Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,&mdash;the family of a man
      who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village
      stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found that there
      was no help, that the American had his papers from the land-office, in all
      due form, certifying that the land was his, had given the man his option
      of paying for the house or having it burned down. The man had bought the
      house; and it was only the week before Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set
      off, with all his goods and chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly
      have told the Senor more, the people said, than any one now in the village
      could; but even Ysidro did not know where Alessandro intended to settle.
      He told no one. He went to the north. That was all they knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly searched.
      He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the house in
      which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of the valley,
      just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in it now. Such a
      good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley. The American had
      paid Alessandro something for it,&mdash;they did not know how much; but
      Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they had listened to
      him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it was too late for
      most of them to get anything for their farms. One man had taken the whole
      of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's house because it was the
      best; and so they would not get anything. They were utterly disheartened,
      broken-spirited.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses. &ldquo;Where
      are you going?&rdquo; he asked of several.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who knows, Senor?&rdquo; was their reply. &ldquo;Where can we go? There is no place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe
      heard her spoken of as &ldquo;Majella,&rdquo; his perplexity deepened. Finally he
      asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another Alessandro
      than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought himself of a
      possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro had married this
      wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both like and unlike
      Ramona?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here, as
      ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at his
      first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had only
      just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was away in the
      mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do equally well,
      to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought out the
      tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath coming fast
      with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father Gaspara's hasty and
      blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names, &ldquo;Alessandro Assis and
      Majella Fa&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have been
      married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom
      Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on which
      Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt compassion,
      or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what lonely,
      forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona?
    </p>
    <p>
      Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching
      farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one
      more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between San
      Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of the
      marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro
      Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian
      converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might have
      been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were dozens
      everywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro
      Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and
      woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children, two
      young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles that
      their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was crying
      bitterly. &ldquo;More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Thanks! Thanks, Senor!&rdquo; she exclaimed; and the man coming up to
      Felipe said also, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe longed to say, &ldquo;Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have work!&rdquo;
       In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought, for both
      the man and the woman had good faces,&mdash;were young and strong. But the
      pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for its dwindled
      fortunes. &ldquo;No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;I live a
      long way from here. Where were you thinking of going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somewhere in San Jacinto,&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;They say the Americans have not
      come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks, Senor; may
      the saints reward you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;San Jacinto!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Juan Can,&rdquo; he said one day, &ldquo;are there many Indians in
      San Jacinto?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mountain?&rdquo; said Juan Can.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, I suppose, the mountain,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;What else is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The valley, too,&rdquo; replied Juan. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one mentioned,
      why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps there were yet
      others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's impressionable nature
      as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see him both lifted up and
      cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little village street of San
      Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against the southern sky, a
      superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights from turquoise to
      ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to himself, &ldquo;She is there!
      I have found her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt Ri,
      with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden. &ldquo;San
      Jacinto?&rdquo; he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Senor,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet, with
      those black devils of his, if he don't look out,&rdquo; he muttered, as he
      recovered his balance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his horse's
      sides, galloped after them. &ldquo;Baba! by God!&rdquo; he cried aloud in his
      excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster,
      shouting as he rode, &ldquo;Stop that man! Stop that man with the black horses!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba as
      soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had
      happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken
      him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own
      horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, &ldquo;Baba! Baba!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;How did you get him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor could
      the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl. Before
      even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and took a
      long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said: &ldquo;Wall,
      Senor,&mdash;I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona, Jos
      saw it, and chuckled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,&rdquo; he
      said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and
      substance of what he had just said, adding: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon,
      throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, &ldquo;Follow
      along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Found! Found,&mdash;the saints be praised,&mdash;at last! How should he
      tell this man fast enough? How should he thank him enough?
    </p>
    <p>
      Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: &ldquo;I can't explain to you; I can't
      tell you. Bless you forever,&mdash;forever! It must be the saints led you
      here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Lawd!&rdquo; thought Jos; &ldquo;another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not,
      Senor,&rdquo; he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. &ldquo;It wur Tom Wurmsee led me; I
      wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take me home with you to your house,&rdquo; said Felipe, still trembling with
      excitement; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet
      Ramona, he was sure. &ldquo;I'll take you straight there,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but first I
      must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated scene
      of an arrest for horse-stealing. &ldquo;Good for you, Tennessee!&rdquo; and, &ldquo;Fork
      over that black horse, Jos!&rdquo; echoed from the departing groups. Sensations
      were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford to slight so
      notable an occasion as this.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his mother
      coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her head, her
      spectacles pushed up in her hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, thar's mammy!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What ever hez gone wrong naow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching her
      bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, &ldquo;Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar! Stop!
      I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound of
      the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's side.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God! Alessandro killed!&rdquo; burst from Felipe's lips in a heart-rending
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was
      almost beyond him. &ldquo;Oh, Lawd!&rdquo; he gasped. Turning to Felipe, &ldquo;Thet's
      mammy,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She wuz real fond o' both on 'em.&rdquo; Turning to his
      mother, &ldquo;This hyar's her brother,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;He jest knowed me by Baba,
      hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she
      sobbed out: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos.
      &ldquo;Tell me in Spanish,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I cannot understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and
      incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, &ldquo;Too late! Too
      late!&rdquo; He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have survived
      the shock of seeing her husband murdered. &ldquo;Too late! Too late!&rdquo; he cried,
      as he staggered into the house. &ldquo;She has surely died of the sight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I allow she didn't die, nuther,&rdquo; said Jos; &ldquo;not ser long ez she hed thet
      young un to look arter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yer air right, Jos!&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he
      said, &ldquo;How far is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,&rdquo; said Jos; &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus
      familiarly spoken,&mdash;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, &ldquo;We must
      go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n&mdash;&rdquo; began Jos,
      energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he
      completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at
      Felipe's command.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jos! He's got ter take me!&rdquo; cried Aunt Ri. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed
      himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yeow tell him, Jos,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San Jacinto.
      She laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence
      enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their
      thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at first
      appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical purposes,
      and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a bond so
      strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made
      the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out, Aunt
      Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, &ldquo;Thet's lucky.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had
      spoken, &ldquo;it is good. It shows to us the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!&rdquo; thought Aunt Ri.
    </p>
    <p>
      Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were
      hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when Aunt
      Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one they
      had seen for many miles, said: &ldquo;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!&mdash;Lawd!
      I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!&rdquo; thought Aunt Ri
      to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on
      Felipe's face. &ldquo;'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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the mountain
      to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from taking his
      own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses like those, they
      said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel road. They pointed
      out to him the line where it wound, doubling and tacking on the sides of
      precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois. Aunt Ri shuddered at the
      sight, but said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm gwine whar he goes,&rdquo; she said grimly to herself. &ldquo;I ain't a gwine ter
      back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road had
      been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at perilous
      angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till it reached
      the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill. Passing this, it
      plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen miles farther on,
      and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and grassy foot-hills, still
      on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern slopes. From these, another
      steep road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla
      village. A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from
      Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the last part
      of the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged that one of the
      younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should also take two of
      his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By the help of these the
      terrible ascent was made without difficulty, though Baba at first snorted,
      plunged, and resented the humiliation of being harnessed with his head at
      another horse's tail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have
      experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the
      precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, until
      the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines were
      grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper curve of
      their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was their
      size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by
      myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away an
      acorn,&mdash;the woodpeckers' granaries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at thet, naow!&rdquo; exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's so!&rdquo; replied Sam Merrill. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she
      chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter! But
      when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he would
      see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm to her
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early dawn
      pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their carriage
      came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be seen. Such
      an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by four horses had
      never before taken place in the village. The agitation into which the
      people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had by no means
      subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence.
      The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had been set at
      liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the flames of
      indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much
      difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth again this
      morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces which
      gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the Capitan's
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and
      contempt. &ldquo;Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid
      eyes on,&rdquo; she said in a low tone to Merrill, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they're friendly enough,&rdquo; laughed Merrill. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had
      leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan,
      had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that
      she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if
      Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was
      conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not even
      the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make
      her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard. The
      words seemed to choke her as she began. &ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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,&mdash;he's jest abaout yeour age, 'n' make tew,
      though he's narrerer chested,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never
      known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door,
      beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly
      rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she
      crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and
      said, &ldquo;Come, speak to her.&rdquo; He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on
      the floor. Was that Ramona,&mdash;that prostrate form; hair dishevelled,
      eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the
      hands of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and
      it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had
      exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri burst into tears. &ldquo;Oh, Lawd!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she cried, leaning out,
      eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. &ldquo;Stop! Here 'tis!&rdquo;
       she cried. &ldquo;I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along hyar;&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;This'll cure her, ef ennything will,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;She's bad,&rdquo; she said, her
      lips trembling; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's
      nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it between
      the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own hands
      blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and life won.
      Before night Ramona was asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers, each
      taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona slept. As
      Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she had knelt by
      his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a niche in the
      mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just smouldering out
      before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken
      stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and Ramona during the past
      ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold; taking it cautiously
      in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's picture, and falling on his
      knees, began to pray as simply as if he were alone. The Indians, standing
      on the doorway, also fell on their knees, and a low-whispered murmur was
      heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. &ldquo;Oh,
      Lawd!&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!&rdquo; Then a
      sudden revulsion seized her. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; And
      Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side
      slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it in
      the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and a
      lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      XXVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light
      streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt Ri
      were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep agin,
      honey,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's eyelids, and
      compelling them down. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way,
      and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove to
      speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint question
      that came,&mdash;&ldquo;Felipe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear! I am here, too,&rdquo; breathed Felipe; &ldquo;go to sleep. We will not
      leave you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri, with a sigh,
      deep-drawn like a groan. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering in
      Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle constancy
      had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made; this, and her
      inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were those of old, who
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific smile
      that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, &ldquo;How did you find me, dear
      Felipe?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Alessandro.&rdquo; A convulsion passed
      over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly
      responded: &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her
      vocabulary answered her need at that moment. &ldquo;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'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips
      framed the words, &ldquo;With you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear, home with me,&rdquo; said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. &ldquo;I have
      been searching for you all this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How
      often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the
      sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than
      continued anxiety. &ldquo;I am alone, dear Ramona,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;There is no
      one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead a
      year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. &ldquo;Dear Felipe!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;take care of Felipe&rdquo;! Ramona would not die!
      Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and duty, on the side of
      life,&mdash;the battle was won, and won quickly, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on Aunt
      Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious reverence.
      They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb by means of
      which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made repeated
      experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be that there
      had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would hardly
      believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she
      reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water
      and &ldquo;old man,&rdquo; which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which, when
      explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some
      significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the
      leaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in the
      Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like water,
      and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything, anything, he
      wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the atmosphere of that
      lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He had travelled all over
      California, with four horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till
      she was well, to take her to his home in the south; and then he was going
      to arrest the man who had murdered her husband, and have him hanged,&mdash;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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Senor, I will explain;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's, the wife's, must be
      false,&rdquo; and &ldquo;at any rate, her testimony would not be worth a straw with
      any jury,&rdquo; Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; and Felipe would have
      been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Farrar had done in making
      his escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up her
      spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young Merrill.
      &ldquo;Fled ther country, hez he?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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,&mdash;ther childun's
      mothers, yer know,&mdash;'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,'&mdash;they allers called
      daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'&mdash;'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,&mdash;I heern him,&mdash;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words.
      They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a
      stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character of
      the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such strata,&mdash;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&mdash;its
      forms not yet quite fossilized&mdash;a realm full of the devout customs,
      doctrines, religious influences, which the boy knew, and the man
      remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or struggle in
      his mature life, these all come again into the light. Assembly Catechism
      definitions, which he learned in his childhood, and has not thought of
      since, ring in his ears, and he is thrown into all manner of confusions
      and inconsistencies of feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and
      new man within him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote
      upon young Merrill. He was not many years removed from the sound of a
      preaching of the straitest New England Calvinism. The wild frontier life
      had drawn him in and under, as in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander
      yet at heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's so, Aunt Ri!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. &ldquo;I hain't no
      patience left with yer,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Left his own horse, so he did!&rdquo; retorted Merrill. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',&rdquo; persisted Aunt
      Ri. &ldquo;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;&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I'll never hear a word
      said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed.
      Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a
      protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's and
      Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet conscious of
      a loss,&mdash;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,&mdash;one
      of them; as such, she would have had share in all their life had to offer.
      But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation; and she was
      being borne away from it, like one rescued, not so much from death, as
      from a life worse than death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She
      embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days suckled
      her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe that Ramona's
      should not suffer. &ldquo;Sister, you have given me my child,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;I can
      never thank you; I will pray for you all my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a little
      child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than hers was
      ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice spoke to guide
      her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had characterized her
      daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene and sunny then,&mdash;serene
      under trials, sunny in her routine of little duties,&mdash;had kept her
      serene through all the afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the
      burdens of her later life; and it did not desert her even now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry,
      humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. &ldquo;I allow I donno but I
      sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a
      mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go
      home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a
      treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at it.
      &ldquo;Dear girl,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;it is the nearest she has ever come to knowing
      what a mother's love is like!&rdquo; And he lingered in San Bernardino week
      after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear
      the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying was his
      reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering
      companionship.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife.
      She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful
      morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her
      favorite pattern, the &ldquo;hit-er-miss&rdquo; pattern, as she called it; no set
      stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the
      indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a single
      color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious blending of
      the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, too, of not
      unphilosophical reflection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent
      arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the
      time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was
      burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to give,
      and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent himself at
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,&rdquo; she
      said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not come
      to see him; he had expected to hear from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me,&rdquo; said the Agent. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns, I
      notice,&rdquo; broke in Aunt Ri; &ldquo;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&mdash;them wuz
      thar words&mdash;thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's so!&rdquo; said the Agent. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet's so, I allow ter yeow,&rdquo; said Aunt Ri. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have
      no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?&rdquo; broke in Aunt Ri.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical
      method of questioning was inconvenient.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only mean that they are under my charge,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I don't mean that
      they belong to me in any way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, I allow not,&rdquo; retorted Aunt Ri, &ldquo;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,&mdash;what's he got ter do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,&rdquo; replied the
      Agent, promptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why
      Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Aunt Ri,&rdquo; said the Agent; &ldquo;I could not have done that; he is only
      required to doctor such Indians as come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,&rdquo; said Aunt
      Ri; &ldquo;'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I
      expect he gits well paid?&rdquo; and she paused for an answer. None came. The
      Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary the
      Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard
      prescriptions to Indians he never saw.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: &ldquo;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,&mdash;food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times of special
      suffering;&rdquo; replied the Agent, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thet's jest it,&rdquo; persisted Aunt Ri. &ldquo;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,&mdash;ef
      yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin' whiskey, wall, I'm
      free ter say&mdash;&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;I'm free ter say I shouldn't like ter stan'
      in yer shoes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may very well say that, Aunt Ri,&rdquo; laughed the Agent, complacently.
      &ldquo;It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least
      satisfactory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',&rdquo; rejoined the
      indefatigable Aunt Ri; &ldquo;but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so be's
      thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.&rdquo; And she looked
      honestly puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look there, Aunt Ri!&rdquo; said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of books
      and papers. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,&rdquo; retorted Aunt Ri,
      good-naturedly satirical, &ldquo;ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!&rdquo; And she
      took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and
      function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a
      dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito,
      gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed gliding;
      Felipe by her side,&mdash;the dear Felipe,&mdash;his eyes wearing the same
      bright and loving look as of old,&mdash;what strange thing was it which
      had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one in her
      arms,&mdash;she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but her nerves
      were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful anaesthetics in the
      shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness of the blow sometimes
      lies its own first healing. It would be long before Ramona would fully
      realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was yet to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with a
      marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid, always
      ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each
      thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he knew
      her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards him.
      &ldquo;Grateful to me!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;To me, who might have spared her all this
      woe if I had been strong!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Never would Felipe forgive himself,&mdash;no, not to the day of his death.
      His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a pitiful
      thing was that to render!
    </p>
    <p>
      As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that
      she had shed tears. At last he said to her: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think so, Felipe,&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is more than human power can do!&rdquo; said Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not,&rdquo; replied Ramona. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He
      himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke it
      as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There were to
      be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely,
      sorrowing, sunny sister of his.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch for
      days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can heading
      the group; only two absent,&mdash;Margarita and Luigo. They had been
      married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where
      Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd.
    </p>
    <p>
      On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting.
      Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the
      home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of what
      their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed that
      she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would be terrible
      to her to come back to the place so full of painful associations. &ldquo;And the
      Senora gone, too,&rdquo; said one of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it
      over; &ldquo;it's not the same place at all that it was when the Senora was
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than ever,
      for this year of absolute control of the estate. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona&mdash;pale, but with
      her own old smile on her face&mdash;coming towards them with her babe in
      her arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in
      the group.
    </p>
    <p>
      Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards her,
      and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, &ldquo;I am sure you will love
      my baby, Marda!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!&rdquo; they cried; and closed up
      their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her from
      one to another.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, &ldquo;Give her to
      me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;&rdquo; and she moved toward
      the inner door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, dear; this way,&rdquo; cried Felipe. &ldquo;It is Father Salvierderra's
      room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the
      baby!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, kind Felipe!&rdquo; cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her
      words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in
      returning,&mdash;the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It
      would be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would
      never enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom hold
      the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face of this
      beautiful woman,&mdash;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 &ldquo;a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita years
      ago,&mdash;what if he were to do it yet?&rdquo; she said, also under her breath.
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often had
      come about,&mdash;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,&mdash;Ramona,
      widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own, he could not have
      felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little thing had clung to
      him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in his arms, one little
      hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and again
      when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in Felipe's heart came Ramona's
      child; and on the child he could lavish the fondness he felt that he could
      never dare to show to the mother, Month by month it grew clearer to Felipe
      that the mainsprings of Ramona's life were no longer of this earth; that
      she walked as one in constant fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and
      calm mention of Alessandro did not deceive him. It did not mean a
      lessening grief: it meant an unchanged relation.
    </p>
    <p>
      One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?&rdquo; asked Ramona, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; cried Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. &ldquo;You have not read
      the Senora Ortegna's letter?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I have,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;every word of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against
      the Senora Moreno's will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? &ldquo;No, dear,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that was not
      the word. It was, if you married unworthily.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona reflected. &ldquo;I never recollected the words,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly,&rdquo; said Felipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of it, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next day Ramona said to Felipe: &ldquo;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,&mdash;to
      Father Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would
      rather have them go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear,&rdquo; said Felipe; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written
      bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing we
      call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we can have
      much to do with its shaping.
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,&mdash;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,&mdash;the little Ramona. As unconscious of aught sad
      or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was her delight to
      play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been from the first in
      some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set free from all that
      could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an added
      radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when she felt
      that she for the first time waked to the realization of her bereavement;
      when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out, mocking her with the
      name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled with this absorbing
      grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly to the purposes of each
      day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of joyfulness. She repeated to
      herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than knew them by
      heart; and she spent long hours of the night in prayer, as it had been his
      wont to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them;
      and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new victory
      diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first dishearten,
      nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted lover now than
      he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the world where Ramona
      really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her every act, word, look,
      was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness in his
      companionship. And while this was so, all Felipe's unrest could not make
      him unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning
      desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life in
      California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims,
      standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their boasted
      successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and
      development,&mdash;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,&mdash;for
      Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an exile. There he
      might yet live among men of his own race and degree, and of congenial
      beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this change, always came
      the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing to go? Could it be that
      she felt a bond to this land, in which she had known nothing but
      sufferings.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and wondered
      that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter the burden
      she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of race.
    </p>
    <p>
      The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he could
      have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich
      American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in the
      valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received for it
      was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the realization of all
      his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour that this was
      determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new expression came
      into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An untried future
      beckoned,&mdash;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, &ldquo;She
      will yet be mine,&rdquo; it grew harder, and not easier, for him to refrain from
      pouring out his love in words. Her tender sisterliness, which had been
      such balm and comfort to him, grew at times intolerable; and again and
      again her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had
      displeased him, so strangely did he conduct himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his
      passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there
      came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on board
      the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back to shore
      in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in the end of
      the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to float up around
      her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed at her till his
      senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she put her hand in his,
      and said, as she had said hundreds of times before, &ldquo;Dear Felipe, how good
      you are!&rdquo; he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, &ldquo;Ramona, my love! Oh,
      can you not love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona
      gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she knew
      all. &ldquo;Felipe! My brother!&rdquo; she cried, and stretched out her hands as if in
      warning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! I am not your brother!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I will not be your brother! I
      would rather die!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Felipe!&rdquo; cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to himself.
      It was a voice of terror and of pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me, my sweet one!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I will never say it again. But
      I have loved you so long&mdash;so long!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the
      shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet gently
      as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme moment of
      Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole past life in a
      new light. Remorse smote her. &ldquo;Dear Felipe,&rdquo; she said, clasping her hands,
      &ldquo;I have been very selfish. I did not know&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you did not, love,&rdquo; said Felipe. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. &ldquo;I have always
      loved you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I love no other living man; but, Felipe,&rdquo;&mdash;her
      voice sank to a solemn whisper,&mdash;&ldquo;do you not know, Felipe, that part
      of me is dead,&mdash;dead? can never live again? You could not want me for
      your wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. &ldquo;You
      would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife,&rdquo; he cried.
      &ldquo;Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself
      dead or alive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not
      know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This gentle,
      faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she would do
      her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only the broken
      fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of passion, but
      of calmest, most unselfish action,&mdash;ah, how unlike was she to that
      Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, &ldquo;Take me with
      you! I would rather die than have you leave me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with
      infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe
      loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved
      her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words having
      been spoken? &ldquo;I will be your wife, dear Felipe,&rdquo; she said, speaking
      solemnly, slowly, &ldquo;if you are sure it will make you happy, and if you
      think it is right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right!&rdquo; ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon.
      &ldquo;Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will
      forget you ever said that part of you was dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it might
      have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of
      Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after
      their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda and
      Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them. The story
      of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly enhanced the
      interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno
      was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled with pride to see
      the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was distinguished in all
      assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. Ramona might well
      doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood like sentinels in her
      breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear,
      her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, &ldquo;Majella!&rdquo; This was
      the only secret her loyal, loving heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal,
      loving heart indeed it was,&mdash;loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands so
      blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all
      beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the most
      beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one who bore
      the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the Senor,&mdash;Ramona,&mdash;Ramona,
      daughter of Alessandro the Indian.
    </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2802 ***</div>
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