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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..85e5f2d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69730 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69730) diff --git a/old/69730-0.txt b/old/69730-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f07df0d..0000000 --- a/old/69730-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7549 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Death comes for the archbishop, by -Willa Cather - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Death comes for the archbishop - -Author: Willa Cather - -Release Date: January 7, 2023 [eBook #69730] -[Most recently updated: September 26, 2023] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - The Internet Archive.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP *** - - - BY WILLA CATHER - - - - - DEATH COMES - FOR THE - ARCHBISHOP - - - - "_Auspice Maria!_" - Father Vaillant's signet-ring - - - - - NEW YORK - ALFRED A KNOPF--MCMXXVII - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1926, 1927, BY WILLA CATHER - - - - -_The Works of_ -WILLA CATHER - -ALEXANDER'S BRIDGE - -O PIONEERS! - -THE SONG OF THE LARK - -MY ANTONIA - -ONE OF OURS - -A LOST LADY - -THE PROFESSOR'S HOUSE - -MY MORTAL ENEMY - -YOUTH AND THE BRIGHT MEDUSA - - - - -CONTENTS - -Prologue. At Rome - -1. The Vicar Apostolic - -2. Missionary Journeys - -3. The Mass at Ácoma - -4. Snake Root - -5. Padre Martinez - -6. Doña Isabella - -7. The Great Diocese - -8. Gold under Pike's Peak - -9. Death Comes for the Archbishop - - - - -DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP - - - - -_PROLOGUE_ - -AT ROME - - -ONE summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary -Bishop from America were dining together in the gardens of a villa in -the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome. The villa was famous for the fine -view from its terrace. The hidden garden in which the four men sat at -table lay some twenty feet below the south end of this terrace, and was -a mere shelf of rock, overhanging a steep declivity planted with -vineyards. A flight of stone steps connected it with the promenade -above. The table stood in a sanded square, among potted orange and -oleander trees, shaded by spreading ilex oaks that grew out of the rocks -overhead. Beyond the balustrade was the drop into the air, and far below -the landscape stretched soft and undulating; there was nothing to arrest -the eye until it reached Rome itself. - -It was early when the Spanish Cardinal and his guests sat down to -dinner. The sun was still good for an hour of supreme splendour, and -across the shining folds of country the low profile of the city barely -fretted the sky-line--indistinct except for the dome of St. Peter's, -bluish grey like the flattened top of a great balloon, just a flash of -copper light on its soft metallic surface. The Cardinal had an eccentric -preference for beginning his dinner at this time in the late afternoon, -when the vehemence of the sun suggested motion. The light was full of -action and had a peculiar quality of climax--of splendid finish. It was -both intense and soft, with a ruddiness as of much-multiplied -candlelight, an aura of red in its flames. It bored into the ilex trees, -illuminating their mahogany trunks and blurring their dark foliage; it -warmed the bright green of the orange trees and the rose of the oleander -blooms to gold; sent congested spiral patterns quivering over the damask -and plate and crystal. The churchmen kept their rectangular clerical -caps on their heads to protect them from the sun. The three Cardinals -wore black cassocks with crimson pipings and crimson buttons, the Bishop -a long black coat over his violet vest. - -They were talking business; had met, indeed, to discuss an anticipated -appeal from the Provincial Council at Baltimore for the founding of an -Apostolic Vicarate in New Mexico--a part of North America recently -annexed to the United States. This new territory was vague to all of -them, even to the missionary Bishop. The Italian and French Cardinals -spoke of it as _Le Mexique_, and the Spanish host referred to it as "New -Spain." Their interest in the projected Vicarate was tepid, and had to -be continually revived by the missionary, Father Ferrand; Irish by -birth, French by ancestry--a man of wide wanderings and notable -achievement in the New World, an Odysseus of the Church. The language -spoken was French--the time had already gone by when Cardinals could -conveniently discuss contemporary matters in Latin. - -The French and Italian Cardinals were men in vigorous middle life--the -Norman full-belted and ruddy, the Venetian spare and sallow and -hook-nosed. Their host, Garcia Maria de Allande, was still a young man. -He was dark in colouring, but the long Spanish face, that looked out -from so many canvases in his ancestral portrait gallery, was in the -young Cardinal much modified through his English mother. With his -_caffè oscuro_ eyes, he had a fresh, pleasant English mouth, and an -open manner. - -During the latter years of the reign of Gregory XVI, de Allande had been -the most influential man at the Vatican; but since the death of Gregory, -two years ago, he had retired to his country estate. He believed the -reforms of the new Pontiff impractical and dangerous, and had withdrawn -from politics, confining his activities to work for the Society for the -Propagation of the Faith--that organization which had been so fostered -by Gregory. In his leisure the Cardinal played tennis. As a boy, in -England, he had been passionately fond of this sport. Lawn tennis had -not yet come into fashion; it was a formidable game of indoor tennis the -Cardinal played. Amateurs of that violent sport came from Spain and -France to try their skill against him. - -The missionary, Bishop Ferrand, looked much older than any of them, old -and rough--except for his clear, intensely blue eyes. His diocese lay -within the icy arms of the Great Lakes, and on his long, lonely -horseback rides among his missions the sharp winds had bitten him well. -The missionary was here for a purpose, and he pressed his point. He ate -more rapidly than the others and had plenty of time to plead his -cause,--finished each course with such dispatch that the Frenchman -remarked he would have been an ideal dinner companion for Napoleon. - -The Bishop laughed and threw out his brown hands in apology. "Likely -enough I have forgot my manners. I am preoccupied. Here you can scarcely -understand what it means that the United States has annexed that -enormous territory which was the cradle of the Faith in the New World. -The Vicarate of New Mexico will be in a few years raised to an Episcopal -See, with jurisdiction over a country larger than Central and Western -Europe, barring Russia. The Bishop of that See will direct the beginning -of momentous things." - -"Beginnings," murmured the Venetian, "there have been so many. But -nothing ever comes from over there but trouble and appeals for money." - -The missionary turned to him patiently. "Your Eminence, I beg you to -follow me. This country was evangelized in fifteen hundred, by the -Franciscan Fathers. It has been allowed to drift for nearly three -hundred years and is not yet dead. It still pitifully calls itself a -Catholic country, and tries to keep the forms of religion without -instruction. The old mission churches are in ruins. The few priests are -without guidance or discipline. They are lax in religious observance, -and some of them live in open concubinage. If this Augean stable is not -cleansed, now that the territory has been taken over by a progressive -government, it will prejudice the interests of the Church in the whole -of North America." - -"But these missions are still under the jurisdiction of Mexico, are they -not?" inquired the Frenchman. - -"In the See of the Bishop of Durango?" added Maria de Allande. - -The missionary sighed. "Your Eminence, the Bishop of Durango is an old -man; and from his seat to Santa Fé is a distance of fifteen hundred -English miles. There are no wagon roads, no canals, no navigable rivers. -Trade is carried on by means of pack-mules, over treacherous trails. The -desert down there has a peculiar horror; I do not mean thirst, nor -Indian massacres, which are frequent. The very floor of the world is -cracked open into countless canyons and arroyos, fissures in the earth -which are sometimes ten feet deep, sometimes a thousand. Up and down -these stony chasms the traveller and his mules clamber as best they can. -It is impossible to go far in any direction without crossing them. If -the Bishop of Durango should summon a disobedient priest by letter, who -shall bring the Padre to him? Who can prove that he ever received the -summons? The post is carried by hunters, fur trappers, gold seekers, -whoever happens to be moving on the trails." - -The Norman Cardinal emptied his glass and wiped his lips. - -"And the inhabitants, Father Ferrand? If these are the travellers, who -stays at home?" - -"Some thirty Indian nations, Monsignor, each with its own customs and -language, many of them fiercely hostile to each other. And the Mexicans, -a naturally devout people. Untaught and unshepherded, they cling to the -faith of their fathers." - -"I have a letter from the Bishop of Durango, recommending his Vicar for -this new post," remarked Maria de Allande. - -"Your Eminence, it would be a great misfortune if a native priest were -appointed; they have never done well in that field. Besides, this Vicar -is old. The new Vicar must be a young man, of strong constitution, full -of zeal, and above all, intelligent. He will have to deal with savagery -and ignorance, with dissolute priests and political intrigue. He must be -a man to whom order is necessary--as dear as life." - -The Spaniard's coffee-coloured eyes showed a glint of yellow as he -glanced sidewise at his guest. "I suspect, from your exordium, that you -have a candidate--and that he is a French priest, perhaps?" - -"You guess rightly, Monsignor. I am glad to see that we have the same -opinion of French missionaries." - -"Yes," said the Cardinal lightly, "they are the best missionaries. Our -Spanish fathers made good martyrs, but the French Jesuits accomplish -more. They are the great organizers." - -"Better than the Germans?" asked the Venetian, who had Austrian -sympathies. - -"Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange! The French -missionaries have a sense of proportion and rational adjustment. They -are always trying to discover the logical relation of things. It is a -passion with them." Here the host turned to the old Bishop again. "But -your Grace, why do you neglect this Burgundy? I had this wine brought up -from my cellar especially to warm away the chill of your twenty Canadian -winters. Surely, you do not gather vintages like, this on the shores of -the Great Lake Huron?" - -The missionary smiled as he took up his untouched glass. "It is superb, -your Eminence, but I fear I have lost my palate for vintages. Out there, -a little whisky, or Hudson Bay Company rum, does better for us. I must -confess I enjoyed the champagne in Paris. We had been forty days at sea, -and I am a poor sailor." - -"Then we must have some for you." He made a sign to his major-domo. "You -like it very cold? And your new Vicar Apostolic, what will he drink in -the country of bison and _serpents à sonnettes_? And what will he eat?" - -"He will eat dried buffalo meat and frijoles with chili, and he will be -glad to drink water when he can get it. He will have no easy life, your -Eminence. That country will drink up his youth and strength as it does -the rain. He will be called upon for every sacrifice, quite possibly for -martyrdom. Only last year the Indian pueblo of San Fernandez de Taos -murdered and scalped the American Governor and some dozen other whites. -The reason they did not scalp their Padre, was that their Padre was one -of the leaders of the rebellion and himself planned the massacre. That -is how things stand in New Mexico!" - -"Where is your candidate at present, Father?" - -"He is a parish priest, on the shores of Lake Ontario, in my diocese. I -have watched his work for nine years. He is but thirty-five now. He came -to us directly from the Seminary." - -"And his name is?" - -"Jean Marie Latour." - -Maria de Allande, leaning back in his chair, put the tips of his long -fingers together and regarded them thoughtfully. - -"Of course, Father Ferrand, the Propaganda will almost certainly appoint -to this Vicarate the man whom the Council at Baltimore recommends." - -"Ah yes, your Eminence; but a word from you to the Provincial Council, -an inquiry, a suggestion----" - -"Would have some weight, I admit," replied the Cardinal smiling. "And -this Latour is intelligent, you say? What a fate you are drawing upon -him! But I suppose it is no worse than a life among the Hurons. My -knowledge of your country is chiefly drawn from the romances of Fenimore -Cooper, which I read in English with great pleasure. But has your priest -a versatile intelligence? Any intelligence in matters of art, for -example?" - -"And what need would he have for that, Monsignor? Besides, he is from -Auvergne." - -The three Cardinals broke into laughter and refilled their glasses. They -were all becoming restive under the monotonous persistence of the -missionary. - -"Listen," said the host, "and I will relate a little story, while the -Bishop does me the compliment to drink my champagne. I have a reason for -asking this question which you have answered so finally. In my family -house in Valencia I have a number of pictures by the great Spanish -painters, collected chiefly by my great-grandfather, who was a man of -perception in these things and, for his time, rich. His collection of El -Greco is, I believe, quite the best in Spain. When my progenitor was an -old man, along came one of these missionary priests from New Spain, -begging. All missionaries from the Americas were inveterate beggars, -then as now, Bishop Ferrand. This Franciscan had considerable success, -with his tales of pious Indian converts and struggling missions. He came -to visit at my great-grandfather's house and conducted devotions in the -absence of the Chaplain. He wheedled a good sum of money out of the old -man, as well as vestments and linen and chalices--he would take -anything--and he implored my grandfather to give him a painting from his -great collection, for the ornamentation of his mission church among the -Indians. My grandfather told him to choose from the gallery, believing -the priest would covet most what he himself could best afford to spare. -But not at all; the hairy Franciscan pounced upon one of the best in the -collection; a young St. Francis in meditation, by El Greco, and the -model for the saint was one of the very handsome Dukes of Albuquerque. -My grandfather protested; tried to persuade the fellow that some picture -of the Crucifixion, or a martyrdom, would appeal more strongly to his -redskins. What would a St. Francis, of almost feminine beauty, mean to -the scalp-takers? - -"All in vain. The missionary turned upon his host with a reply which has -become a saying in our family: 'You refuse me this picture because it is -a good picture. _It is too good for God, but it is not too good for -you_.' - -"He carried off the painting. In my grandfather's manuscript catalogue, -under the number and title of the St. Francis, is written: _Given to -Fray Teodocio, for the glory of God, to enrich his mission church at -Pueblo de Cia, among the savages of New Spain_. - -"It is because of this lost treasure, Father Ferrand, that I happen to -have had some personal correspondence with the Bishop of Durango. I once -wrote the facts to him fully. He replied to me that the mission at Cia -was long ago destroyed and its furnishings scattered. Of course the -painting may have been ruined in a pillage or massacre. On the other -hand, it may still be hidden away in some crumbling sacristy or smoky -wigwam. If your French priest had a discerning eye, now, and were sent -to this Vicarate, he might keep my El Greco in mind." - -The Bishop shook his head. "No, I can't promise you--I do not know. I -have noticed that he is a man of severe and refined tastes, but he is -very reserved. Down there the Indians do not dwell in wigwams, your -Eminence," he added gently. - -"No matter, Father. I see your redskins through Fenimore Cooper, and I -like them so. Now let us go to the terrace for our coffee and watch the -evening come on." - -The Cardinal led his guests up the narrow stairway. The long gravelled -terrace and its balustrade were blue as a lake in the dusky air. Both -sun and shadows were gone. The folds of russet country were now violet. -Waves of rose and gold throbbed up the sky from behind the dome of the -Basilica. - -As the churchmen walked up and down the promenade, watching the stars -come out, their talk touched upon many matters, but they avoided -politics, as men are apt to do in dangerous times. Not a word was spoken -of the Lombard war, in which the Pope's position was so anomalous. They -talked instead of a new opera by young Verdi, which was being sung in -Venice; of the case of a Spanish dancing-girl who had lately become a -religious and was said to be working miracles in Andalusia. In this -conversation the missionary took no part, nor could he even follow it -with much interest. He asked himself whether he had been on the frontier -so long that he had quite lost his taste for the talk of clever men. But -before they separated for the night Maria de Allande spoke a word in his -ear, in English. - -"You are distrait, Father Ferrand. Are you wishing to unmake your new -Bishop already? It is too late. Jean Marie Latour--am I right?" - - - - - -BOOK ONE - -_THE VICAR APOSTOLIC_ - - - - -1 - -THE CRUCIFORM TREE - - -ONE afternoon in the autumn of 1851 a solitary horseman, followed by a -pack-mule, was pushing through an arid stretch of country somewhere in -central New Mexico. He had lost his way, and was trying to get back to -the trail, with only his compass and his sense of direction for guides. -The difficulty was that the country in which he found himself was so -featureless--or rather, that it was crowded with features, all exactly -alike. As far as he could see, on every side, the landscape was heaped -up into monotonous red sand-hills, not much larger than haycocks, and -very much the shape of haycocks. One could not have believed that in the -number of square miles a man is able to sweep with the eye there could -be so many uniform red hills. He had been riding among them since early -morning, and the look of the country had no more changed than if he had -stood still. He must have travelled through thirty miles of these -conical red hills, winding his way in the narrow cracks between them, -and he had begun to think that he would never see anything else. They -were so exactly like one another that he seemed to be wandering in some -geometrical nightmare; flattened cones, they were, more the shape of -Mexican ovens than haycocks--yes, exactly the shape of Mexican ovens, -red as brick-dust, and naked of vegetation except for small juniper -trees. And the junipers, too, were the shape of Mexican ovens. Every -conical hill was spotted with smaller cones of juniper, a uniform -yellowish green, as the hills were a uniform red. The hills thrust out -of the ground so thickly that they seemed to be pushing each other, -elbowing each other aside, tipping each other over. - -The blunted pyramid, repeated so many hundred times upon his retina and -crowding down upon him in the heat, had confused the traveller, who was -sensitive to the shape of things. - -"_Mais, c'est fantastique_!" he muttered, closing his eyes to rest them -from the intrusive omnipresence of the triangle. - -When he opened his eyes again, his glance immediately fell upon one -juniper which differed in shape from the others. It was not a -thick-growing cone, but a naked, twisted trunk, perhaps ten feet high, -and at the top it parted into two lateral, flat-lying branches, with a -little crest of green in the centre, just above the cleavage. Living -vegetation could not present more faithfully the form of the Cross. - -The traveller dismounted, drew from his pocket a much worn book, and -baring his head, knelt at the foot of the cruciform tree. - -Under his buckskin riding-coat he wore a black vest and the cravat and -collar of a churchman. A young priest, at his devotions; and a priest in -a thousand, one knew at a glance. His bowed head was not that of an -ordinary man,--it was built for the seat of a fine intelligence. His -brow was open, generous, reflective, his features handsome and somewhat -severe. There was a singular elegance about the hands below the fringed -cuffs of the buckskin jacket. Everything showed him to be a man of -gentle birth--brave, sensitive, courteous. His manners, even when he was -alone in the desert, were distinguished. He had a kind of courtesy -toward himself, toward his beasts, toward the juniper tree before which -he knelt, and the God whom he was addressing. - -His devotions lasted perhaps half an hour, and when he rose he looked -refreshed. He began talking to his mare in halting Spanish, asking -whether she agreed with him that it would be better to push on, weary as -she was, in hope of finding the trail. He had no water left in his -canteen, and the horses had had none since yesterday morning. They had -made a dry camp in these hills last night. The animals were almost at -the end of their endurance, but they would not recuperate until they got -water, and it seemed best to spend their last strength in searching for -it. - -On a long caravan trip across Texas this man had had some experience of -thirst, as the party with which he travelled was several times put on a -meagre water ration for days together. But he had not suffered then as -he did now. Since morning he had had a feeling of illness; the taste of -fever in his mouth, and alarming seizures of vertigo. As these conical -hills pressed closer and closer upon him, he began to wonder whether his -long wayfaring from the mountains of Auvergne were possibly to end here. -He reminded himself of that cry, wrung from his Saviour on the Cross, -"_J'ai soif_!" Of all our Lord's physical sufferings, only one, "I -thirst," rose to His lips. Empowered by long training, the young priest -blotted himself out of his own consciousness and meditated upon the -anguish of his Lord. The Passion of Jesus became for him the only -reality; the need of his own body was but a part of that conception. - -His mare stumbled, breaking his mood of contemplation. He was sorrier -for his beasts than for himself. He, supposed to be the intelligence of -the party, had got the poor animals into this interminable desert of -ovens. He was afraid he had been absent-minded, had been pondering his -problem instead of heeding the way. His problem was how to recover a -Bishopric. He was a Vicar Apostolic, lacking a Vicarate. He was thrust -out; his flock would have none of him. - -The traveller was Jean Marie Latour, consecrated Vicar Apostolic of New -Mexico and Bishop of Agathonica _in partibus_ at Cincinnati a year -ago--and ever since then he had been trying to reach his Vicarate. No -one in Cincinnati could tell him how to get to New Mexico--no one had -ever been there. Since young Father Latour's arrival in America, a -railroad had been built through from New York to Cincinnati; but there -it ended. New Mexico lay in the middle of a dark continent. The Ohio -merchants knew of two routes only. One was the Santa Fé trail from St. -Louis, but at that time it was very dangerous because of Comanche Indian -raids. His friends advised Father Latour to go down the river to New -Orleans, thence by boat to Galveston, across Texas to San Antonio, and -to wind up into New Mexico along the Rio Grande valley. This he had -done, but with what misadventures! - -His steamer was wrecked and sunk in the Galveston harbour, and he had -lost all his worldly possessions except his books, which he saved at the -risk of his life. He crossed Texas with a traders' caravan, and -approaching San Antonio he was hurt in jumping from an overturning -wagon, and had to lie for three months in the crowded house of a poor -Irish family, waiting for his injured leg to get strong. - -It was nearly a year after he had embarked upon the Mississippi that the -young Bishop, at about the sunset hour of a summer afternoon, at last -beheld the old settlement toward which he had been journeying so long: -The wagon train had been going all day through a greasewood plain, when -late in the afternoon the teamsters began shouting that over yonder was -the Villa. Across the level, Father Latour could distinguish low brown -shapes, like earthworks, lying at the base of wrinkled green mountains -with bare tops,--wave-like mountains, resembling billows beaten up from -a flat sea by a heavy gale; and their green was of two colors--aspen and -evergreen, not intermingled but lying in solid areas of light and dark. - -As the wagons went forward and the sun sank lower, a sweep of red -carnelian-coloured hills lying at the foot of the mountains came into -view; they curved like two arms about a depression in the plain; and in -that depression, was Santa Fé, at last! A thin, wavering adobe town ... -a green plaza ... at one end a church with two earthen towers that rose -high above the flatness. The long main street began at the church, the -town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring. The church -towers, and all the low adobe houses, were rose colour in that light,--a -little darker in tone than the amphitheatre of red hills behind; and -periodically the plumes of poplars flashed like gracious accent -marks,--inclining and recovering themselves in the wind. - -The young Bishop was not alone in the exaltation of that hour; beside -him rode Father Joseph Vaillant, his boyhood friend, who had made this -long pilgrimage with him and shared his dangers. The two rode into Santa -Fé together, claiming it for the glory of God. - - -How, then, had Father Latour come to be here in the sand-hills, many -miles from his seat, unattended, far out of his way and with no -knowledge of how to get back to it? - -On his arrival at Santa Fé, this was what had happened: The Mexican -priests there had refused to recognize his authority. They disclaimed -any knowledge of a Vicarate Apostolic, or a Bishop of Agathonica. They -said they were under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Durango, and had -received no instructions to the contrary. If Father Latour was to be -their Bishop, where were his credentials? A parchment and letters, he -knew, had been sent to the Bishop of Durango, but these had evidently -got no farther. There was no postal service in this part of the world; -the quickest and surest way to communicate with the Bishop of Durango -was to go to him. So, having travelled for nearly a year to reach Santa -Fé, Father Latour left it after a few weeks, and set off alone on -horseback to ride down into Old Mexico and back, a journey of full -three thousand miles. - -He had been warned that there were many trails leading off the Rio -Grande road, and that a stranger might easily mistake his way. For the -first few days he had been cautious and watchful. Then he must have -grown careless and turned into some purely local trail. When he realized -that he was astray, his canteen was already empty and his horses seemed -too exhausted to retrace their steps. He had persevered in this sandy -track, which grew ever fainter, reasoning that it must lead somewhere. - -All at once Father Latour thought he felt a change in the body of his -mare. She lifted her head for the first time in a long while, and seemed -to redistribute her weight upon her legs. The pack-mule behaved in a -similar manner, and both quickened their pace. Was it possible they -scented water? - -Nearly an hour went by, and then, winding between two hills that were -like all the hundreds they had passed, the two beasts whinnied -simultaneously. Below them, in the midst of that wavy ocean of sand, was -a green thread of verdure and a running stream. This ribbon in the -desert seemed no wider than a man could throw a stone,--and it was -greener than anything Latour had ever seen, even in his own greenest -corner of the Old World. But for the quivering of the hide on his mare's -neck and shoulders, he might have thought this a vision, a delusion of -thirst. - -Running water, clover fields, cottonwoods, acacias, little adobe houses -with brilliant gardens, a boy-driving a flock of white goats toward the -stream,--that was what the young Bishop saw. - -A few moments later, when he was struggling with his horses, trying to -keep them from overdrinking, a young girl with a black shawl over her -head came running toward him. He thought he had never seen a kindlier -face. Her greeting was that of a Christian. - -"_Ave Maria Purissima, Señor_. Whence do you come?" - -"Blessed child," he replied in Spanish, "I am a priest who has lost his -way. I am famished for water." - -"A priest?" she cried, "that is not possible! Yet I look at you, and it -is true. Such a thing has never happened to us before; it must be in -answer to my father's prayers. Run, Pedro, and tell father and -Salvatore." - - - - -2 - -HIDDEN WATER - - -AN hour later, as darkness came over the sand-hills, the young Bishop -was seated at supper in the motherhouse of this Mexican -settlement--which, he learned, was appropriately called _Agua Secreta_, -Hidden Water. At the table with him were his host, an old man called -Benito, the oldest son, and two grandsons. The old man was a widower, -and his daughter, Josepha, the girl who had run to meet the Bishop at -the stream, was his housekeeper. Their supper was a pot of frijoles -cooked with meat, bread and goat's milk, fresh cheese and ripe apples. - -From the moment he entered this room with its thick whitewashed adobe -walls, Father Latour had felt a kind of peace about it. In its bareness -and simplicity there was something comely, as there was about the -serious girl who had placed their food before them and who now stood in -the shadows against the wall, her eager eyes fixed upon his face. He -found himself very much at home with the four dark-headed men who sat -beside him in the candlelight. Their manners were gentle, their voices -low and agreeable. When he said grace before meat, the men had knelt on -the floor beside the table. The grandfather declared that the Blessed -Virgin must have led the Bishop from his path and brought him here to -baptize the children and to sanctify the marriages. Their settlement was -little known, he said. They had no papers for their land and were afraid -the Americans might take it away from them. There was no one in their -settlement who could read or write. Salvatore, his oldest son, had gone -all the way to Albuquerque to find a wife, and had married there. But -the priest had charged him twenty pesos, and that was half of all he had -saved to buy furniture and glass windows for his house. His brothers and -cousins, discouraged by his experience, had taken wives without the -marriage sacrament. - -In answer to the Bishop's questions, they told him the simple story of -their lives. They had here all they needed to make them happy. They spun -and wove from the fleece of their flocks, raised their own corn and -wheat and tobacco, dried their plums and apricots for winter. Once a -year the boys took the grain up to Albuquerque to have it ground, and -bought such luxuries as sugar and coffee. They had bees, and when sugar -was high they sweetened with honey. Benito did not know in what year his -grandfather had settled here, coming from Chihuahua with all his goods -in ox-carts. "But it was soon after the time when the French killed -their king. My grandfather had heard talk of that before he left home, -and used to tell us boys about it when he was an old man." - -"Perhaps you have guessed that I am a Frenchman," said Father Latour. - -No, they had not, but they felt sure he was not an American. José, the -elder grandson, had been watching the visitor uncertainly. He was a -handsome boy, with a triangle of black hair hanging over his rather -sullen eyes. He now spoke for the first time. - -"They say at Albuquerque that now we are all Americans, but that is not -true, Padre. I will never be an American. They are infidels." - -"Not all, my son. I have lived among Americans in the north for ten -years, and I found many devout Catholics." - -The young man shook his head. "They destroyed our churches when they -were fighting us, and stabled their horses in them. And now they will -take our religion away from us. We want our own ways and our own -religion." - -Father Latour began to tell them about his friendly relations with -Protestants in Ohio, but they had not room in their minds for two ideas; -there was one Church, and the rest of the world was infidel. One thing -they could understand; that he had here in his saddle-bags his -vestments, the altar stone, and all the equipment for celebrating the -Mass; and that to-morrow morning, after Mass, he would hear confessions, -baptize, and sanctify marriages. - -After supper Father Latour took up a candle and began to examine the -holy images on the shelf over the fire-place. The wooden figures of the -saints, found in even the poorest Mexican houses, always interested him. -He had never yet seen two alike. These over Benito's fire-place had come -in the oxcarts from Chihuahua nearly sixty years ago. They had been -carved by some devout soul, and brightly painted, though the colours had -softened with time, and they were dressed in cloth, like dolls. They -were much more to his taste than the factory-made plaster images in his -mission churches in Ohio--more like the homely stone carvings on the -front of old parish churches in Auvergne. The wooden Virgin was a -sorrowing mother indeed,--long and stiff and severe, very long from the -neck to the waist, even longer from waist to feet, like some of the -rigid mosaics of the Eastern Church. She was dressed in black, with a -white apron, and a black reboso over her head, like a Mexican woman of -the poor. At her right was St. Joseph, and at her left a fierce little -equestrian figure, a saint wearing the costume of a Mexican _ranchero_, -velvet trousers richly embroidered and wide at the ankle, velvet jacket -and silk shirt, and a high-crowned, broad-brimmed Mexican sombrero. He -was attached to his fat horse by a wooden pivot driven through the -saddle. - -The younger grandson saw the priest's interest in this figure. "That," -he said, "is my name saint, Santiago." - -"Oh, yes; Santiago. He was a missionary, like me. In our country we call -him St. Jacques, and he carries a staff and a wallet--but here he would -need a horse, surely." - -The boy looked at him in surprise. "But he is the saint of horses. Isn't -he that in your country?" - -The Bishop shook his head. "No. I know nothing about that. How is he the -saint of horses?" - -"He blesses the mares and makes them fruitful. Even the Indians believe -that. They know that if they neglect to pray to Santiago for a few -years, the foals do not come right." - -A little later, after his devotions, the young Bishop lay down in -Benito's deep feather-bed, thinking how different was this night from -his anticipation of it. He had expected to make a dry camp in the -wilderness, and to sleep under a juniper tree, like the Prophet, -tormented by thirst. But here he lay in comfort and safety, with love -for his fellow creatures flowing like peace about his heart. If Father -Vaillant were here, he would say, "A miracle"; that the Holy Mother, to -whom he had addressed himself before the cruciform tree, had led him -hither. And it was a miracle, Father Latour knew that. But his dear -Joseph must always have the miracle very direct and spectacular, not -with Nature, but against it. He would almost be able to tell the colour -of the mantle Our Lady wore when She took the mare by the bridle back -yonder among the junipers and led her out of the pathless sand-hills, as -the angel led the ass on the Flight into Egypt. - - * * * - -In the late afternoon of the following day the Bishop was walking alone -along the banks of the life-giving stream, reviewing in his mind the -events of the morning. Benito and his daughter had made an altar before -the sorrowful wooden Virgin, and placed upon it candles and flowers. -Every soul in the village, except Salvatore's sick wife, had come to the -Mass. He had performed marriages and baptisms and heard confessions and -confirmed until noon. Then came the christening feast. José had killed -a kid the night before, and immediately after her confirmation Josepha -slipped away to help her sisters-in-law roast it. When Father Latour -asked her to give him his portion without chili, the girl inquired -whether it was more pious to eat it like that. He hastened to explain -that Frenchmen, as a rule, do not like high seasoning, lest she should -hereafter deprive herself of her favourite condiment. - -After the feast the sleepy children were taken home, the men gathered in -the plaza to smoke under the great cottonwood trees. The Bishop, feeling -a need of solitude, had gone forth to walk, firmly refusing an escort. -On his way he passed the earthen thrashing-floor, where these people -beat out their grain and winnowed it in the wind, like the Children of -Israel. He heard a frantic bleating behind him, and was overtaken by -Pedro with the great flock of goats, indignant at their day's -confinement, and wild to be in the fringe of pasture along the hills. -They leaped the stream like arrows speeding from the bow, and regarded -the Bishop as they passed him with their mocking, humanly intelligent -smile. The young bucks were light and elegant in figure, with their -pointed chins and polished tilted horns. There was great variety in -their faces, but in nearly all something supercilious and sardonic. The -angoras had long silky hair of a dazzling whiteness. As they leaped -through the sunlight they brought to mind the chapter in the Apocalypse, -about the whiteness of them that were washed in the blood of the Lamb. -The young Bishop smiled at his mixed theology. But though the goat had -always been the symbol of pagan lewdness, he told himself that their -fleece had warmed many a good Christian, and their rich milk nourished -sickly children. - -About a mile above the village he came upon the water-head, a spring -overhung by the sharp-leafed variety of cottonwood called water willow. -All about it crowded the oven-shaped hills,--nothing to hint of water -until it rose miraculously out of the parched and thirsty sea of sand. -Some subterranean stream found an outlet here, was released from -darkness. The result was grass and trees and flowers and human life; -household order and hearths from which the smoke of burning piñon logs -rose like incense to Heaven. - -The Bishop sat a long time by the spring, while the declining sun poured -its beautifying light over those low, rose-tinted houses and bright -gardens. The old grandfather had shown him arrow-heads and corroded -medals, and a sword hilt, evidently Spanish, that he had found in the -earth near the water-head. This spot had been a refuge for humanity long -before these Mexicans had come upon it. It was older than history, like -those well-heads in his own country where the Roman settlers had set up -the image of a river goddess, and later the Christian priests had -planted a cross. This settlement was his Bishopric in miniature; -hundreds of square miles of thirsty desert, then a spring, a village, -old men trying to remember their catechism to teach their grandchildren. -The Faith planted by the Spanish friars and watered with their blood was -not dead; it awaited only the toil of the husbandman. He was not -troubled about the revolt in Santa Fé, or the powerful old native -priest who led it--Father Martinez, of Taos, who had ridden over from -his parish expressly to receive the new Vicar and to drive him away. He -was rather terrifying, that old priest, with his big head, violent -Spanish face, and shoulders like a buffalo; but the day of his tyranny -was almost over. - - - - -3 - -THE BISHOP _CHEZ LUI_ - - -IT was the late afternoon of Christmas Day, and the Bishop sat at his -desk writing letters. Since his return to Santa Fé his official -correspondence had been heavy; but the closely-written sheets over which -he bent with a thoughtful smile were not to go to Monsignori, or to -Archbishops, or to the heads of religious houses,--but to France, to -Auvergne, to his own little town; to a certain grey, winding street, -paved with cobbles and shaded by tall chestnuts on which, even to-day, -some few brown leaves would be clinging, or dropping one by one, to be -caught in the cold green ivy on the walls. - -The Bishop had returned from his long horseback trip into Mexico only -nine days ago. At Durango the old Mexican prelate there had, after some -delay, delivered to him the documents that defined his Vicarate, and -Father Latour rode back the fifteen hundred miles to Santa Fé through -the sunny days of early winter. On his arrival he found amity instead of -enmity awaiting him. Father Vaillant had already endeared himself to the -people. The Mexican priest who was in charge of the pro-cathedral had -gracefully retired--gone to visit his family in Old Mexico, and carried -his effects along with him. Father Vaillant had taken possession of the -priest's house, and with the help of carpenters and the Mexican women of -the parish had put it in order. The Yankee traders and the military -Commandant at Fort Marcy had sent generous contributions of bedding and -blankets and odd pieces of furniture. - -The Episcopal residence was an old adobe house, much out of repair, but -with possibilities of comfort. Father Latour had chosen for his study a -room at one end of the wing. There he sat, as this afternoon of -Christmas Day faded into evening. It was a long room of an agreeable -shape. The thick clay walls had been finished on the inside by the deft -palms of Indian women, and had that irregular and intimate quality of -things made entirely by the human hand. There was a reassuring solidity -and depth about those walls, rounded at door-sills and window-sills, -rounded in wide wings about the corner fire-place. The interior had been -newly whitewashed in the Bishop's absence, and the flicker of the fire -threw a rosy glow over the wavy surfaces, never quite evenly flat, never -a dead white, for the ruddy colour of the clay underneath gave a warm -tone to the lime wash. The ceiling was made of heavy cedar beams, -overlaid by aspen saplings, all of one size, lying close together like -the ribs in corduroy and clad in their ruddy inner skins. The earth -floor was covered with thick Indian blankets; two blankets, very old, -and beautiful in design and colour, were hung on the walls like -tapestries. - -On either side of the fire-place plastered recesses were let into the -wall. In one, narrow and arched, stood the Bishop's crucifix. The other -was square, with a carved wooden door, like a grill, and within it lay a -few rare and beautiful books. The rest of the Bishop's library was on -open shelves at one end of the room. - -The furniture of the house Father Vaillant had bought from the departed -Mexican priest. It was heavy and somewhat clumsy, but not unsightly. All -the wood used in making tables and bedsteads was hewn from tree boles -with the ax or hatchet. Even the thick planks on which the Bishop's -theological books rested were ax-dressed. There was not at that time a -turning-lathe or a saw-mill in all northern New Mexico. The native -carpenters whittled out chair rungs and table legs, and fitted them -together with wooden pins instead of iron nails. Wooden chests were used -in place of dressers with drawers, and sometimes these were beautifully -carved, or covered with decorated leather. The desk at which the Bishop -sat writing was an importation, a walnut "secretary" of American make -(sent down by one of the officers of the Fort at Father Vaillant's -suggestion). His silver candlesticks he had brought from France long -ago. They were given to him by a beloved aunt when he was ordained. - -The young Bishop's pen flew over the paper, leaving a trail of fine, -finished French script behind, in violet ink. - -"My new study, dear brother, as I write, is full of the delicious -fragrance of the piñon logs burning in my fire-place. (We use this kind -of cedar-wood altogether for fuel, and it is highly aromatic, yet -delicate. At our meanest tasks we have a perpetual odour of incense -about us.) I wish that you, and my dear sister, could look in upon this -scene of comfort and peace. We missionaries wear a frock-coat and -wide-brimmed hat all day, you know, and look like American traders. What -a pleasure to come home at night and put on my old cassock! I feel more -like a priest then--for so much of the day I must be a 'business -man'!--and, for some reason, more like a Frenchman. All day I am an -American in speech and thought--yes, in heart, too. The kindness of the -American traders, and especially of the military officers at the Fort, -commands more than a superficial loyalty. I mean to help the officers at -their task here. I can assist them more than they realize. The Church -can do more than the Fort to make these poor Mexicans 'good Americans.' -And it is for the people's good; there is no other way in which they can -better their condition. - -"But this is not the day to write you of my duties or my purposes. -To-night we are exiles, happy ones, thinking of home. Father Joseph has -sent away our Mexican woman,--he will make a good cook of her in time, -but to-night he is preparing our Christmas dinner himself. I had thought -he would be worn out to-day, for he has been conducting a Novena of High -Masses, as is the custom here before Christmas. After the Novena, and -the midnight Mass last night, I supposed he would be willing to rest -to-day; but not a bit of it. You know his motto, 'Rest in action.' I -brought him a bottle of olive-oil on my horse all the way from Durango -(I say 'olive-oil,' because here 'oil' means something to grease the -wheels of wagons!), and he is making some sort of cooked salad. We have -no green vegetables here in winter, and no one seems ever to have heard -of that blessed plant, the lettuce. Joseph finds it hard to do without -salad-oil, he always had it in Ohio, though it was a great extravagance. -He has been in the kitchen all afternoon. There is only an open -fire-place for cooking, and an earthen roasting-oven out in the -courtyard. But he has never failed me in anything yet; and I think I can -promise you that to-night two Frenchmen will sit down to a good dinner -and drink your health." - -The Bishop laid down his pen and lit his two candles with a splinter -from the fire, then stood dusting his fingers by the deep-set window, -looking out at the pale blue darkening sky. The evening-star hung above -the amber afterglow, so soft, so brilliant that she seemed to bathe in -her own silver light. _Ave Maris Stella_, the song which one of his -friends at the Seminary used to intone so beautifully; humming it softly -he returned to his desk and was just dipping his pen in the ink when the -door opened, and a voice said, - -"_Monseigneur est servi! Alors, Jean, veux-tu apporter les bougies._" - -The Bishop carried the candles into the dining-room, where the table was -laid and Father Vaillant was changing his cook's apron for his cassock. -Crimson from standing over an open fire, his rugged face was even -homelier than usual--though one of the first things a stranger decided -upon meeting Father Joseph was that the Lord had made few uglier men. He -was short, skinny, bow-legged from a life on horseback, and his -countenance had little to recommend it but kindliness and vivacity. He -looked old, though he was then about forty. His skin was hardened and -seamed by exposure to weather in a bitter climate, his neck scrawny and -wrinkled like an old man's. A bold, blunt-tipped nose, positive chin, a -very large mouth,--the lips thick and succulent but never loose, never -relaxed, always stiffened by effort or working with excitement. His -hair, sunburned to the shade of dry hay, had originally been -tow-coloured; "_Blanchet_" ("Whitey") he was always called at the -Seminary. Even his eyes were near-sighted, and of such a pale, watery -blue as to be unimpressive. There was certainly nothing in his outer -case to suggest the fierceness and fortitude and fire of the man, and -yet even the thick-blooded Mexican half-breeds knew his quality at once. -If the Bishop returned to find Santa Fé friendly to him, it was because -everybody believed in Father Vaillant--homely, real, persistent, with -the driving power of a dozen men in his poorly built body. - -On coming into the dining-room, Bishop Latour placed his candlesticks -over the fire-place, since there were already six upon the table, -illuminating the brown soup-pot. After they had stood for a moment in -prayer, Father Joseph lifted the cover and ladled the soup into the -plates, a dark onion soup with croutons. The Bishop tasted it critically -and smiled at his companion. After the spoon had travelled to his lips a -few times, he put it down and leaning back in his chair remarked, - -"Think of it, _Blanchet_; in all this vast country between the -Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean, there is probably not another human -being who could make a soup like this." - -"Not unless he is a Frenchman," said Father Joseph. He had tucked a -napkin over the front of his cassock and was losing no time in -reflection. - -"I am not deprecating your individual talent, Joseph," the Bishop -continued, "but, when one thinks of it, a soup like this is not the work -of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There -are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup." - -Father Joseph frowned intently at the earthen pot in the middle of the -table. His pale, near-sighted eyes had always the look of peering into -distance. "_C'est ça, c'est vrai_," he murmured. "But how," he -exclaimed as he filled the Bishop's plate again, "how can a man make a -proper soup without leeks, that king of vegetables? We cannot go on -eating onions for ever." - -After carrying away the _soupière_, he brought in the roast chicken and -_pommes sautées_. "And salad, Jean," he continued as he began to carve. -"Are we to eat dried beans and roots for the rest of our lives? Surely -we must find time to make a garden. Ah, my garden at Sandusky! And you -could snatch me away from it! You will admit that you never ate better -lettuces in France. And my vineyard; a natural habitat for the vine, -that. I tell you, the shores of Lake Erie will be covered with vineyards -one day. I envy the man who is drinking my wine. Ah well, that is a -missionary's life; to plant where another shall reap." - -As this was Christmas Day, the two friends were speaking in their native -tongue. For years they had made it a practice to speak English together, -except upon very special occasions, and of late they conversed in -Spanish, in which they both needed to gain fluency. - -"And yet sometimes you used to chafe a little at your dear Sandusky and -its comforts," the Bishop reminded him--"to say that you would end a -home-staying parish priest, after all." - -"Of course, one wants to eat one's cake and have it, as they say in -Ohio. But no farther, Jean. This is far enough. Do not drag me any -farther." Father Joseph began gently to coax the cork from a bottle of -red wine with his fingers. "This I begged for your dinner at the -hacienda where I went to baptize the baby on St. Thomas's Day. It is not -easy to separate these rich Mexicans from their French wine. They know -its worth." He poured a few drops and tried it. "A slight taste of the -cork; they do not know how to keep it properly. However, it is quite -good enough for missionaries." - -"You ask me not to drag you any farther, Joseph. I wish," Bishop Latour -leaned back in his chair and locked his hands together beneath his chin, -"I wish I knew how far this is! Does anyone know the extent of this -diocese, or of this territory? The Commandant at the Fort seems as much -in the dark as I. He says I can get some information from the scout, Kit -Carson, who lives at Taos." - -"Don't begin worrying about the diocese, Jean. For the present, Santa -Fé is the diocese. Establish order at home. To-morrow I will have a -reckoning with the churchwardens, who allowed that band of drunken -cowboys to come in to the midnight Mass and defile the font. There is -enough to do here. _Festina lente_. I have made a resolve not to go more -than three days' journey from Santa Fé for one year." - -The Bishop smiled and shook his head. "And when you were at the -Seminary, you made a resolve to lead a life of contemplation." - -A light leaped into Father Joseph's homely face. "I have not yet -renounced that hope. One day you will release me, and I will return to -some religious house in France and end my days in devotion to the Holy -Mother. For the time being, it is my destiny to serve Her in action. But -this is far enough, Jean." - -The Bishop again shook his head and murmured, "Who knows how far?" - -The vary little priest whose life was to be a succession of mountain -ranges, pathless deserts, yawning canyons and swollen rivers, who was to -carry the Cross into territories yet unknown and unnamed, who would wear -down mules and horses and scouts and stage-drivers, to-night looked -apprehensively at his superior and repeated, "No more, Jean. This is far -enough." Then making haste to change the subject, he said briskly, "A -bean salad was the best I could do for you; but with onion, and just a -suspicion of salt pork, it is not so bad." - -Over the compote of dried plums they fell to talking of the great yellow -ones that grew in the old Latour garden at home. Their thoughts met in -that tilted cobble street, winding down a hill, with the uneven garden -walls and tall horse-chestnuts on either side; a lonely street after -nightfall, with soft street lamps shaped like lanterns at the darkest -turnings. At the end of it was the church where the Bishop made his -first Communion, with a grove of flat-cut plane trees in front, under -which the market was held on Tuesdays and Fridays. - -While they lingered over these memories--an indulgence they seldom -permitted themselves--the two missionaries were startled by a volley of -rifle-shots and blood-curdling yells without, and the galloping of -horses. The Bishop half rose, but Father Joseph reassured him with a -shrug. - -"Do not discompose yourself. The same thing happened here on the eve of -All Souls' Day. A band of drunken cowboys, like those who came into the -church last night, go out to the pueblo and get the Tesuque Indian boys -drunk, and then they ride in to serenade the soldiers at the Fort in -this manner." - - - - -4 - -A BELL AND A MIRACLE - - -ON the morning after the Bishop's return from Durango, after his first -night in his Episcopal residence, he had a pleasant awakening from -sleep. He had ridden into the courtyard after nightfall, having changed -horses at a _rancho_ and pushed on nearly sixty miles in order to reach -home. Consequently he slept late the next morning--did not awaken until -six o'clock, when he heard the Angelus ringing. He recovered -consciousness slowly, unwilling to let go of a pleasing delusion that he -was in Rome. Still half believing that he was lodged near St. John -Lateran, he yet heard every stroke of the Ave Maria bell, marvelling to -hear it rung correctly (nine quick strokes in all, divided into threes, -with an interval between); and from a bell with beautiful tone. Full, -clear, with something bland and suave, each note floated through the air -like a globe of silver. Before the nine strokes were done Rome faded, -and behind it he sensed something Eastern, with palm trees,--Jerusalem, -perhaps, though he had never been there. Keeping his eyes closed, he -cherished for a moment this sudden, pervasive sense of the East. Once -before he had been carried out of the body thus to a place far away. It -had happened in a street in New Orleans. He had turned a corner and come -upon an old woman with a basket of yellow flowers; sprays of yellow -sending out a honey-sweet perfume. Mimosa--but before he could think of -the name he was overcome by a feeling of place, was dropped, cassock and -all, into a garden in the south of France where he had been sent one -winter in his childhood to recover from an illness. And now this silvery -bell note had carried him farther and faster than sound could travel. - -When he joined Father Vaillant at coffee, that impetuous man who could -never keep a secret asked him anxiously whether he had heard anything. - -"I thought I heard the Angelus, Father Joseph, but my reason tells me -that only a long sea voyage could bring me within sound of such a bell." - -"Not at all," said Father Joseph briskly. "I found that remarkable bell -here, in the basement of old San Miguel. They tell me it has been here a -hundred years or more. There is no church tower in the place strong -enough to hold it--it is very thick and must weigh close upon eight -hundred pounds. But I had a scaffolding built in the churchyard, and -with the help of oxen we raised it and got it swung on crossbeams. I -taught a Mexican boy to ring it properly against your return." - -"But how could it have come here? It is Spanish, I suppose?" - -"Yes, the inscription is in Spanish, to St. Joseph, and the date is -1356. It must have been brought up from Mexico City in an ox-cart. A -heroic undertaking, certainly. Nobody knows where it was cast. But they -do tell a story about it: that it was pledged to St. Joseph in the wars -with the Moors, and that the people of some besieged city brought all -their plate and silver and gold ornaments and threw them in with the -baser metals. There is certainly a good deal of silver in the bell, -nothing else would account for its tone." - -Father Latour reflected. "And the silver of the Spaniards was really -Moorish, was it not? If not actually of Moorish make, copied from their -design. The Spaniards knew nothing about working silver except as they -learned it from the Moors." - -"What are you doing, Jean? Trying to make my bell out an infidel?" -Father Joseph asked impatiently. - -The Bishop smiled. "I am trying to account for the fact that when I -heard it this morning it struck me at once as something oriental. A -learned Scotch Jesuit in Montreal told me that our first bells, and the -introduction of the bell in the service all over Europe, originally came -from the East. He said the Templars brought the Angelus back from the -Crusades, and it is really an adaptation of a Moslem custom." - -Father Vaillant sniffed. "I notice that scholars always manage to dig -out something belittling," he complained. - -"Belittling? I should say the reverse. I am glad to think there is -Moorish silver in your bell. When we first came here, the one good -workman we found in Santa Fé was a silversmith. The Spaniards handed on -their skill to the Mexicans, and the Mexicans have taught the Navajos to -work silver; but it all came from the Moors." - -"I am no scholar, as you know," said Father Vaillant rising. "And this -morning we have many practical affairs to occupy us. I have promised -that you will give an audience to a good old man, a native priest from -the Indian mission at Santa Clara, who is returning from Mexico. He has -just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and -has been much edified. He would like to tell you the story of his -experience. It seems that ever since he was ordained he has desired to -visit the shrine. During your absence I have found how particularly -precious is that shrine to all Catholics in New Mexico. They regard it -as the one absolutely authenticated appearance of the Blessed Virgin in -the New World, and a witness of Her affection for Her Church on this -continent." - -The Bishop went into his study, and Father Vaillant brought in Padre -Escolastico Herrera, a man of nearly seventy, who had been forty years -in the ministry, and had just accomplished the pious desire of a -lifetime. His mind was still full of the sweetness of his late -experience. He was so rapt that nothing else interested him. He asked -anxiously whether perhaps the Bishop would have more leisure to attend -to him later in the day. But Father Latour placed a chair for him and -told him to proceed. - -The old man thanked him for the privilege of being seated. Leaning -forward, with his hands locked between his knees, he told the whole -story of the miraculous appearance, both because it was so dear to his -heart, and because he was sure that no "American" Bishop would have -heard of the occurrence as it was, though at Rome all the details were -well known and two Popes had sent gifts to the shrine. - - -On Saturday, December 9th, in the year 1531, a poor neophyte of the -monastery of St. James was hurrying down Tapeyac hill to attend Mass in -the City of Mexico. His name was Juan Diego and he was fifty-five years -old. When he was half way down the hill a light shone in his path, and -the Mother of God appeared to him as a young woman of great beauty, clad -in blue and gold. She greeted him by name and said: - -"Juan, seek out thy Bishop and bid him build a church in my honour on -the spot where I now stand. Go then, and I will bide here and await thy -return." - -Brother Juan ran into the City and straight to the Bishop's palace, -where he reported the matter. The Bishop was Zumarraga, a Spaniard. He -questioned the monk severely and told him he should have required a sign -of the Lady to assure him that she was indeed the Mother of God and not -some evil spirit. He dismissed the poor brother harshly and set an -attendant to watch his actions. - -Juan went forth very downcast and repaired to the house of his uncle, -Bernardino, who was sick of a fever. The two succeeding days he spent in -caring for this aged man who seemed at the point of death. Because of -the Bishop's reproof he had fallen into doubt, and did not return to the -spot where the Lady said She would await him. On Tuesday he left the -City to go back to his monastery to fetch medicines for Bernardino, but -he avoided the place where he had seen the vision and went by another -way. - -Again he saw a light in his path and the Virgin appeared to him as -before, saying, "Juan, why goest thou by this way?" - -Weeping, he told Her that the Bishop had distrusted his report, and that -he had been employed in caring for his uncle, who was sick unto death. -The Lady spoke to him with all comfort, telling him that his uncle would -be healed within the hour, and that he should return to Bishop Zumarraga -and bid him build a church where She had first appeared to him. It must -be called the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, after Her dear shrine of -that name in Spain. When Brother Juan replied to Her that the Bishop -required a sign, She said: "Go up on the rocks yonder, and gather -roses." - -Though it was December and not the season for roses, he ran up among the -rocks and found such roses as he had never seen before. He gathered them -until he had filled his _tilma_. The _tilma_ was a mantle worn only by -the very poor,--a wretched garment loosely woven of coarse vegetable -fibre and sewn down the middle. When he returned to the apparition, She -bent over the flowers and took pains to arrange them, then closed the -ends of the _tilma_ together and said to him: - -"Go now, and do not open your mantle until you open it before your -Bishop." - -Juan sped into the City and gained admission to the Bishop, who was in -council with his Vicar. - -"Your Grace," he said, "the Blessed Lady who appeared to me has sent you -these roses for a sign." - -At this he held up one end of his _tilma_ and let the roses fall in -profusion to the floor. To his astonishment, Bishop Zumarraga and his -Vicar instantly fell upon their knees among the flowers. On the inside -of his poor mantle was a painting of the Blessed Virgin, in robes of -blue and rose and gold, exactly as She had appeared to him upon the -hill-side. - -A shrine was built to contain this miraculous portrait, which since that -day has been the goal of countless pilgrimages and has performed many -miracles. - - -Of this picture Padre Escolastico had much to say: he affirmed that it -was of marvellous beauty, rich with gold, and the colours as pure and -delicate as the tints of early morning. Many painters had visited the -shrine and marvelled that paint could be laid at all upon such poor and -coarse material. In the ordinary way of nature, the flimsy mantle would -have fallen to pieces long ago. The Padre modestly presented Bishop -Latour and Father Joseph with little medals he had brought from the -shrine; on one side a relief of the miraculous portrait, on the other an -inscription: _Non fecit taliter omni nationi_. (_She hath not dealt so -with any nation_.) - -Father Vaillant was deeply stirred by the priest's recital, and after -the old man had gone he declared to the Bishop that he meant himself to -make a pilgrimage to this shrine at the earliest opportunity. - -"What a priceless thing for the poor converts of a savage country!" he -exclaimed, wiping his glasses, which were clouded by his strong feeling. -"All these poor Catholics who have been so long without instruction have -at least the reassurance of that visitation. It is a household word with -them that their Blessed Mother revealed Herself in their own country, to -a poor convert. Doctrine is well enough for the wise, Jean; but the -miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love." - -Father Vaillant began pacing restlessly up and down as he spoke, and the -Bishop watched him, musing. It was just this in his friend that was dear -to him. "Where there is great love there are always miracles," he said -at length. "One might almost say that an apparition is human vision -corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I -see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to -me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming -suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made -finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what -is there about us always." - - - - -BOOK TWO - -_MISSIONARY JOURNEYS_ - - - - -1 - -THE WHITE MULES - - -IN mid-March, Father Vaillant was on the road, returning from a -missionary journey to Albuquerque. He was to stop at the _rancho_ of a -rich Mexican, Manuel Lujon, to marry his men and maid servants who were -living in concubinage, and to baptize the children. There he would spend -the night. To-morrow or the day after he would go on to Santa Fé, -halting by the way at the Indian pueblo of Santo Domingo to hold -service. There was a fine old mission church at Santo Domingo, but the -Indians were of a haughty and suspicious disposition. He had said Mass -there on his way to Albuquerque, nearly a week ago. By dint of -canvassing from house to house, and offering medals and religious colour -prints to all who came to church, he had got together a considerable -congregation. It was a large and prosperous pueblo, set among clean -sand-hills, with its rich irrigated farm lands lying just below, in the -valley of the Rio Grande. His congregation was quiet, dignified, -attentive. They sat on the earth floor, wrapped in their best blankets, -repose in every line of their strong, stubborn backs. He harangued them -in such Spanish as he could command, and they listened with respect. But -bring their children to be baptized, they would not. The Spaniards had -treated them very badly long ago, and they had been meditating upon -their grievance for many generations. Father Vaillant had not baptized -one infant there, but he meant to stop to-morrow and try again. Then -back to his Bishop, provided he could get his horse up La Bajada Hill. - -He had bought his horse from a Yankee trader and had been woefully -deceived. One week's journey of from twenty to thirty miles a day had -shown the beast up for a wind-broken wreck. Father Vaillant's mind was -full of material cares as he approached Manuel Lujon's place beyond -Bernalillo. The _rancho_ was like a little town, with all its stables, -corrals, and stake fences. The _casa grande_ was long and low, with -glass windows and bright blue doors, a _portale_ running its full -length, supported by blue posts. Under this _portale_ the adobe wall was -hung with bridles, saddles, great boots and spurs, guns and saddle -blankets, strings of red peppers, fox skins, and the skins of two great -rattlesnakes. - - -When Father Vaillant rode in through the gateway, children came running -from every direction, some with no clothing but a little shirt, and -women with no shawls over their black hair came running after the -children. They all disappeared when Manuel Lujon walked out of the great -house, hat in hand, smiling and hospitable. He was a man of thirty-five, -settled in figure and somewhat full under the chin. He greeted the -priest in the name of God and put out a hand to help him alight, but -Father Vaillant sprang quickly to the ground. - -"God be with you, Manuel, and with your house. But where are those who -are to be married?" - -"The men are all in the field, Padre. There is no hurry. A little wine, -a little bread, coffee, repose--and then the ceremonies." - -"A little wine, very willingly, and bread, too. But not until afterward. -I meant to catch you all at dinner, but I am two hours late because my -horse is bad. Have someone bring in my saddle-bags, and I will put on my -vestments. Send out to the fields for your men, Señor Lujon. A man can -stop work to be married." - -The swarthy host was dazed by this dispatch. "But one moment, Padre. -There are all the children to baptize; why not begin with them, if I -cannot persuade you to wash the dust from your sainted brow and repose a -little." - -"Take me to a place where I can wash and change my clothes, and I will -be ready before you can get them here. No, I tell you, Lujon, the -marriages first, the baptisms afterward; that order is but Christian. I -will baptize the children to-morrow morning, and their parents will at -least have been married over night." - -Father Joseph was conducted to his chamber, and the older boys were sent -running off across the fields to fetch the men. Lujon and his two -daughters began constructing an altar at one end of the _sala_. Two old -women came to scrub the floor, and another brought chairs and stools. - -"My God, but he is ugly, the Padre!" whispered one of these to the -others. "He must be very holy. And did you see the great wart he has on -his chin? My grandmother could take that away for him if she were alive, -poor soul! Somebody ought to tell him about the holy mud at Chimayo. -That mud might dry it up. But there is nobody left now who can take -warts away." - -"No, the times are not so good any more," the other agreed. "And I doubt -if all this marrying will make them any better. Of what use is it to -marry people after they have lived together and had children? and the -man is maybe thinking about another woman, like Pablo. I saw him coming -out of the brush with that oldest girl of Trinidad's, only Sunday -night." - -The reappearance of the priest upon the scene cut short further scandal. -He knelt down before the improvised altar and began his private -devotions. The women tiptoed away. Señor Lujon himself went out toward -the servants' quarters to hurry the candidates for the marriage -sacrament. The women were giggling and snatching up their best shawls. -Some of the men had even washed their hands. The household crowded into -the _sala_, and Father Vaillant married couples with great dispatch. - -"To-morrow morning, the baptisms," he announced. "And the mothers see to -it that the children are clean, and that there are sponsors for all." - -After he had resumed his travelling-clothes, Father Joseph asked his -host at what hour he dined, remarking that he had been fasting since an -early breakfast. - -"We eat when it is ready--a little after sunset, usually. I have had a -young lamb killed for your Reverence." - -Father Joseph kindled with interest. "Ah, and how will it be cooked?" - -Señor Lujon shrugged. "Cooked? Why, they put it in a pot with chili, -and some onions, I suppose." - -"Ah, that is the point. I have had too much stewed mutton. Will you -permit me to go into the kitchen and cook my portion in my own way?" - -Lujon waved his hand. "My house is yours, Padre. Into the kitchen I -never go--too many women. But there it is, and the woman in charge is -named Rosa." - -When the Father entered the kitchen he found a crowd of women discussing -the marriages. They quickly dispersed, leaving old Rosa by her -fire-place, where hung a kettle from which issued the savour of cooking -mutton fat, all too familiar to Father Joseph. He found a half sheep -hanging outside the door, covered with a bloody sack, and asked Rosa to -heat the oven for him, announcing that he meant to roast the hind leg. - -"But Padre, I baked before the marriages. The oven is almost cold. It -will take an hour to heat it, and it is only two hours till supper." - -"Very well. I can cook my roast in an hour." - -"Cook a roast in an hour!" cried the old woman. "Mother of God, Padre, -the blood will not be dried in it!" - -"Not if I can help it!" said Father Joseph fiercely. "Now hurry with the -fire, my good woman." - -When the Padre carved his roast at the supper-table, the serving-girls -stood behind his chair and looked with horror at the delicate stream of -pink juice that followed the knife. Manuel Lujon took a slice for -politeness, but he did not eat it. Father Vaillant had his _gigot_ to -himself. - -All the men and boys sat down at the long table with the host, the women -and children would eat later. Father Joseph and Lujon, at one end, had a -bottle of white Bordeaux between them. It had been brought from Mexico -City on mule-back, Lujon said. They were discussing the road back to -Santa Fé, and when the missionary remarked that he would stop at Santo -Domingo, the host asked him why he did not get a horse there. "I am -afraid you will hardly get back to Santa Fé on your own. The pueblo is -famous for breeding good horses. You might make a trade." - -"No," said Father Vaillant. "Those Indians are of a sullen disposition. -If I were to have dealings with them, they would suspect my motives. If -we are to save their souls, we must make it clear that we want no profit -for ourselves, as I told Father Gallegos in Albuquerque." - -Manuel Lujon laughed and glanced down the table at his men, who were all -showing their white teeth. "You said that to the Padre at Albuquerque? -You have courage. He is a rich man, Padre Gallegos. All the same, I -respect him. I have played poker with him. He is a great gambler and -takes his losses like a man. He stops at nothing, plays like an -American." - -"And I," retorted Father Joseph, "I have not much respect for a priest -who either plays cards or manages to get rich." - -"Then you do not play?" asked Lujon. "I am disappointed. I had hoped we -could have a game after supper. The evenings are dull enough here. You -do not even play dominoes?" - -"Ah, that is another matter!" Father Joseph declared. "A game of -dominoes, there by the fire, with coffee, or some of that excellent -grape brandy you allowed me to taste, that I would find refreshing. And -tell me, Manuelito, where do you get that brandy? It is like a French -liqueur." - -"It is well seasoned. It was made at Bernalillo in my grandfather's -time. They make it there still, but it is not so good now." - -The next morning, after coffee, while the children were being got ready -for baptism, the host took Father Vaillant through his corrals and -stables to show him his stock. He exhibited with peculiar pride two -cream-coloured mules, stalled side by side. With his own hand he led -them out of the stable, in order to display to advantage their handsome -coats,--not bluish white, as with white horses, but a rich, deep ivory, -that in shadow changed to fawn-colour. Their tails were clipped at the -end into the shape of bells. - -"Their names," said Lujon, "are Contento and Angelica, and they are as -good as their names. It seems that God has given them intelligence. When -I talk to them, they look up at me like Christians; they are very -companionable. They are always ridden together and have a great -affection for each other." - -Father Joseph took one by the halter and led it about. "Ah, but they are -rare creatures! I have never seen a mule or horse coloured like a young -fawn before." To his host's astonishment, the wiry little priest sprang -upon Contento's back with the agility of a grasshopper. The mule, too, -was astonished. He shook himself violently, bolted toward the gate of -the barnyard, and at the gate stopped suddenly. Since this did not throw -his rider, he seemed satisfied, trotted back, and stood placidly beside -Angelica. - -"But you are a _caballero_, Father Vaillant!" Lujon exclaimed. "I doubt -if Father Gallegos would have kept his seat--though he is something of a -hunter." - -"The saddle is to be my home in your country, Lujon. What an easy gait -this mule has, and what a narrow back! I notice that especially. For a -man with short legs, like me, it is a punishment to ride eight hours a -day on a wide horse. And this I must do day after day. From here I go to -Santa Fé, and, after a day in conference with the Bishop, I start for -Mora." - -"For Mora?" exclaimed Lujon. "Yes, that is far, and the roads are very -bad. On your mare you will never do it. She will drop dead under you." -While he talked, the Father remained upon the mule's back, stroking him -with his hand. - -"Well, I have no other. God grant that she does not drop somewhere far -from food and water. I can carry very little with me except my vestments -and the sacred vessels." - -The Mexican had been growing more and more thoughtful, as if he were -considering something profound and not altogether cheerful. Suddenly his -brow cleared, and he turned to the priest with a radiant smile, quite -boyish in its simplicity. "Father Vaillant," he burst out in a slightly -oratorical manner, "you have made my house right with Heaven, and you -charge me very little. I will do something very nice for you; I will -give you Contento for a present, and I hope to be particularly -remembered in your prayers." - -Springing to the ground, Father Vaillant threw his arms about his host. -"Manuelito!" he cried, "for this darling mule I think I could almost -pray you into Heaven!" - -The Mexican laughed, too, and warmly returned the embrace. Arm-in-arm -they went in to begin the baptisms. - - -The next morning, when Lujon went to call Father Vaillant for breakfast, -he found him in the barnyard, leading the two mules about and smoothing -their fawn-coloured flanks, but his face was not the cheerful -countenance of yesterday. - -"Manuel," he said at once, "I cannot accept your present. I have thought -upon it over night, and I see that I cannot. The Bishop works as hard as -I do, and his horse is little better than mine. You know he lost -everything on his way out here, in a shipwreck at Galveston,--among the -rest a fine wagon he had had built for travel on these plains. I could -not go about on a mule like this when my Bishop rides a common hack. It -would be inappropriate. I must ride away on my old mare." - -"Yes, Padre?" Manuel looked troubled and somewhat aggrieved. Why should -the Padre spoil everything? It had all been very pleasant yesterday, and -he had felt like a prince of generosity. "I doubt if she will make La -Bajada Hill," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Look my horses over and -take the one that suits you. They are all better than yours." - -"No, no," said Father Vaillant decidedly. "Having seen these mules, I -want nothing else. They are the colour of pearls, really! I will raise -the price of marriages until I can buy this pair from you. A missionary -must depend upon his mount for companionship in his lonely life. I want -a mule that can look at me like a Christian, as you said of these." - -Señor Lujon sighed and looked about his barnyard as if he were trying -to find some escape from this situation. - -Father Joseph turned to him with vehemence. "If I were a rich -_ranchero_, like you, Manuel, I would do a splendid thing; I would -furnish the two mounts that are to carry the word of God about this -heathen country, and then I would say to myself: _There go my Bishop and -my Vicario, on my beautiful cream-coloured mules_." - -"So be it, Padre," said Lujon with a mournful smile. "But I ought to get -a good many prayers. On my whole estate there is nothing I prize like -those two. True, they might pine if they were parted for long. They have -never been separated, and they have a great affection for each other. -Mules, as you know, have strong affections. It is hard for me to give -them up." - -"You will be all the happier for that, Manuelito," Father Joseph cried -heartily. "Every time you think of these mules, you will feel pride in -your good deed." - -Soon after breakfast Father Vaillant departed, riding Contento, with -Angelica trotting submissively behind, and from his gate Señor Lujon -watched them disconsolately until they disappeared. He felt he had been -worried out of his mules, and yet he bore no resentment. He did not -doubt Father Joseph's devotedness, nor his singleness of purpose. After -all, a Bishop was a Bishop, and a Vicar was a Vicar, and it was not to -their discredit that they worked like a pair of common parish priests. -He believed he would be proud of the fact that they rode Contento and -Angelica. Father Vaillant had forced his hand, but he was rather glad of -it. - - - - -2 - -THE LONELY ROAD TO MORA - - -THE Bishop and his Vicar were riding through the rain in the Truchas -mountains. The heavy, lead-coloured drops were driven slantingly through -the air by an icy wind from the peak. These raindrops, Father Latour -kept thinking, were the shape of tadpoles, and they broke against his -nose and cheeks, exploding with a splash, as if they were hollow and -full of air. The priests were riding across high mountain meadows, which -in a few weeks would be green, though just now they were slate-coloured. -On every side lay ridges covered with blue-green fir trees; above them -rose the horny backbones of mountains. The sky was very low; purplish -lead-coloured clouds let down curtains of mist into the valleys between -the pine ridges. There was not a glimmer of white light in the dark -vapours working overhead--rather, they took on the cold green of the -evergreens. Even the white mules, their coats wet and matted into tufts, -had turned a slaty hue, and the faces of the two priests were purple and -spotted in that singular light. - -Father Latour rode first, sitting straight upon his mule, with his chin -lowered just enough to keep the drive of rain out of his eyes. Father -Vaillant followed, unable to see much,--in weather like this his glasses -were of no use, and he had taken them off. He crouched down in the -saddle, his shoulders well over Contento's neck. Father Joseph's sister, -Philomène, who was Mother Superior of a convent in her native town in -the Puy-de-Dôm, often tried to picture her brother and Bishop Latour on -these long missionary journeys of which he wrote her; she imagined the -scene and saw the two priests moving through it in their cassocks, -bare-headed, like the pictures of St. Francis Xavier with which she was -familiar. The reality was less picturesque,--but for all that, no one -could have mistaken these two men for hunters or traders. They wore -clerical collars about their necks instead of neckerchiefs, and on the -breast of his buckskin jacket the Bishop's silver cross hung by a silver -chain. - -They were on their way to Mora, the third day out, and they did not know -just how far they had still to go. Since morning they had not met a -traveller or seen a human habitation. They believed they were on the -right trail, for they had seen no other. The first night of their -journey they had spent at Santa Cruz, lying in the warm, wide valley of -the Rio Grande, where the fields and gardens were already softly -coloured with early spring. But since they had left the Española -country behind them, they had contended first with wind and sand-storms, -and now with cold. The Bishop was going to Mora to assist the Padre -there in disposing of a crowd of refugees who filled his house. A new -settlement in the Conejos valley had lately been raided by Indians; many -of the inhabitants were killed, and the survivors, who were originally -from Mora, had managed to get back there, utterly destitute. - -Before the travellers had crossed the mountain meadows, the rain turned -to sleet. Their wet buckskins quickly froze, and the rattle of icy -flakes struck them and bounded off. The prospect of a night in the open -was not cheering. It was too wet to kindle a fire, their blankets would -become soaked on the ground. As they were descending the mountain on the -Mora side, the gray daylight seemed already beginning to fail, though it -was only four o'clock. Father Latour turned in his saddle and spoke over -his shoulder. - -"The mules are certainly very tired, Joseph. They ought to be fed." - -"Push on," said Father Vaillant. "We will come to shelter of some kind -before night sets in." The Vicar had been praying steadfastly while they -crossed the meadows, and he felt confident that St. Joseph would not -turn a deaf ear. Before the hour was done they did indeed come upon a -wretched adobe house, so poor and mean that they might not have seen it -had it not lain close beside the trail, on the edge of a steep ravine. -The stable looked more habitable than the house, and the priests thought -perhaps they could spend the night in it. - -As they rode up to the door, a man came out, bare-headed, and they saw -to their surprise that he was not a Mexican, but an American, of a very -unprepossessing type. He spoke to them in some drawling dialect they -could scarcely understand and asked if they wanted to stay the night. -During the few words they exchanged with him Father Latour felt a -growing reluctance to remain even for a few hours under the roof of this -ugly, evil-looking fellow. He was tall, gaunt and ill-formed, with a -snake-like neck, terminating in a small, bony head. Under his -close-clipped hair this repellent head showed a number of thick ridges, -as if the skull joinings were overgrown by layers of superfluous bone. -With its small, rudimentary ears, this head had a positively malignant -look. The man seemed not more than half human, but he was the only -householder on the lonely road to Mora. - -The priests dismounted and asked him whether he could put their mules -under shelter and give them grain feed. - -"As soon as I git my coat on I will. You kin come in." - -They followed him into a room where a piñon fire blazed in the corner, -and went toward it to warm their stiffened hands. Their host made an -angry, snarling sound in the direction of the partition, and a woman -came out of the next room. She was a Mexican. - -Father Latour and Father Vaillant addressed her courteously in Spanish, -greeting her in the name of the Holy Mother, as was customary. She did -not open her lips, but stared at them blankly for a moment, then dropped -her eyes and cowered as if she were terribly frightened. The priests -looked at each other; it struck them both that this man had been abusing -her in some way. Suddenly he turned on her. - -"Clear off them cheers fur the strangers. They won't eat ye, if they air -priests." - -She began distractedly snatching rags and wet socks and dirty clothes -from the chairs. Her hands were shaking so that she dropped things. She -was not old, she might have been very young, but she was probably -half-witted. There was nothing in her face but blankness and fear. - -Her husband put on his coat and boots, went to the door, and stopped -with his hand on the latch, throwing over his shoulder a crafty, hateful -glance at the bewildered woman. - -"Here, you! Come right along, I'll need ye!" - -She took her black shawl from a peg and followed him. Just at the door -she turned and caught the eyes of the visitors, who were looking after -her in compassion and perplexity. Instantly that stupid face became -intense, prophetic, full of awful meaning. With her finger she pointed -them away, away!--two quick thrusts into the air. Then, with a look of -horror beyond anything language could convey, she threw back her head -and drew the edge of her palm quickly across her distended throat--and -vanished. The doorway was empty; the two priests stood staring at it, -speechless. That flash of electric passion had been so swift, the -warning it communicated so vivid and definite, that they were struck -dumb. - -Father Joseph was the first to find his tongue. "There is no doubt of -her meaning. Your pistol is loaded, Jean?" - -"Yes, but I neglected to keep it dry. No matter." - -They hurried out of the house. It was still light enough to see the -stable through the grey drive of rain, and they went toward it. - -"Señor American," the Bishop called, "will you be good enough to bring -out our mules?" - -The man came out of the stable. "What do you want?" - -"Our mules. We have changed our mind. We will push on to Mora. And here -is a dollar for your trouble." - -The man took a threatening attitude. As he looked from one to the other -his head played from side to side exactly like a snake's. "What's the -matter? My house ain't good enough for ye?" - -"No explanation is necessary. Go into the barn and get the mules, Father -Joseph." - -"You dare go into my stable, you----priest!" - -The Bishop drew his pistol. "No profanity, Señor. We want nothing from -you but to get away from your uncivil tongue. Stand where you are." - -The man was unarmed. Father Joseph came out with the mules, which had -not been unsaddled. The poor things were each munching a mouthful, but -they needed no urging to be gone; they did not like this place. The -moment they felt their riders on their backs they trotted quickly along -the road, which dropped immediately into the arroyo. While they were -descending, Father Joseph remarked that the man would certainly have a -gun in the house, and that he had no wish to be shot in the back. - -"Nor I. But it is growing too dark for that, unless he should follow us -on horseback," said the Bishop. "Were there horses in the stable?" - -"Only a burro." Father Vaillant was relying upon the protection of St. -Joseph, whose office he had fervently said that morning. The warning -given them by that poor woman, with such scant opportunity, seemed -evidence that some protecting power was mindful of them. - -By the time they had ascended the far side of the arroyo, night had -closed down and the rain was pouring harder than ever. - -"I am by no means sure that we can keep in the road," said the Bishop. -"But at least I am sure we are not being followed. We must trust to -these intelligent beasts. Poor woman! He will suspect her and abuse her, -I am afraid." He kept seeing her in the darkness as he rode on, her face -in the fire-light, and her terrible pantomime. - -They reached the town of Mora a little after midnight. The Padre's house -was full of refugees, and two of them were put out of a bed in order -that the Bishop and his Vicar could get into it. - -In the morning a boy came from the stable and reported that he had found -a crazy woman lying in the straw, and that she begged to see the two -Padres who owned the white mules. She was brought in, her clothing cut -to rags, her legs and face and even her hair so plastered with mud that -the priests could scarcely recognize the woman who had saved their lives -the night before. - -She said she had never gone back to the house at all. When the two -priests rode away her husband had run to the house to get his gun, and -she had plunged down a wash-out behind the stable into the arroyo, and -had been on the way to Mora all night. She had supposed he would -overtake her and kill her, but he had not. She reached the settlement -before day-break, and crept into the stable to warm herself among the -animals and wait until the household was awake. Kneeling before the -Bishop she began to relate such horrible things that he stopped her and -turned to the native priest. - -"This is a case for the civil authorities. Is there a magistrate here?" - -There was no magistrate, but there was a retired fur trapper who acted -as notary and could take evidence. He was sent for, and in the interval -Father Latour instructed the refugee women from Conejos to bathe this -poor creature and put decent clothes on her, and to care for the cuts -and scratches on her legs. - -An hour later the woman, whose name was Magdalena, calmed by food and -kindness, was ready to tell her story. The notary had brought along his -friend, St. Vrain, a Canadian trapper who understood Spanish better than -he. The woman was known to St. Vrain, moreover, who confirmed her -statement that she was born Magdalena Valdez, at Los Ranchos de Taos, -and that she was twenty-four years old. Her husband, Buck Scales, had -drifted into Taos with a party of hunters from somewhere in Wyoming. All -white men knew him for a dog and a degenerate--but to Mexican girls, -marriage with an American meant coming up in the world. She had married -him six years ago, and had been living with him ever since in that -wretched house on the Mora trail. During that time he had robbed and -murdered four travellers who had stopped there for the night. They were -all strangers, not known in the country. She had forgot their names, but -one was a German boy who spoke very little Spanish and little English; -a nice boy with blue eyes, and she had grieved for him more than for the -others. They were all buried in the sandy soil behind the stable. She -was always afraid their bodies might wash out in a storm. Their horses -Buck had ridden off by night and sold to Indians somewhere in the north. -Magdalena had borne three children since her marriage, and her husband -had killed each of them a few days after birth, by ways so horrible that -she could not relate it. After he killed the first baby, she ran away -from him, back to her parents at Ranchos. He came after her and made her -go home with him by threatening harm to the old people. She was afraid -to go anywhere for help, but twice before she had managed to warn -travellers away, when her husband happened to be out of the house. This -time she had found courage because, when she looked into the faces of -these two Padres, she knew they were good men, and she thought if she -ran after them they could save her. She could not bear any more killing. -She asked nothing better than to die herself, if only she could hide -near a church and a priest for a while, to make her soul right with God. - -St. Vrain and his friend got together a search-party at once. They rode -out to Scales's place and found the remains of four men buried under the -corral behind the stable, as the woman had said. Scales himself they -captured on the road from Taos, where he had gone to look for his wife. -They brought him back to Mora, but St. Vrain rode on to Taos to fetch a -magistrate. - -There was no _calabozo_ in Mora, so Scales was put into an empty stable, -under guard. This stable was soon surrounded by a crowd of people, who -loitered to hear the blood-curdling threats the prisoner shouted against -his wife. Magdalena was kept in the Padre's house, where she lay on a -mat in the corner, begging Father Latour to take her back to Santa Fé, -so that her husband could not get at her. Though Scales was bound, the -Bishop felt alarmed for her safety. He and the American notary, who had -a pistol of the new revolver model, sat in the _sala_ and kept watch -over her all night. - -In the morning the magistrate and his party arrived from Taos. The -notary told him the facts of the case in the plaza, where everyone could -hear. The Bishop inquired whether there was any place for Magdalena in -Taos, as she could not stay on here in such a state of terror. - -A man dressed in buckskin hunting-clothes stepped out of the crowd and -asked to see Magdalena. Father Latour conducted him into the room where -she lay on her mat. The stranger went up to her, removing his hat. He -bent down and put his hand on her shoulder. Though he was clearly an -American, he spoke Spanish in the native manner. - -"Magdalena, don't you remember me?" - -She looked up at him as out of a dark well; something became alive in -her deep, haunted eyes. She caught with both hands at his fringed -buckskin knees. - -"Christobal!" she wailed. "Oh, Christobal!" - -"I'll take you home with me, Magdalena, and you can stay with my wife. -You wouldn't be afraid in my house, would you?" - -"No, no, Christobal, I would not be afraid with you. I am not a wicked -woman." - -He smoothed her hair. "You're a good girl, Magdalena--always were. It -will be all right. Just leave things to me." - -Then he turned to the Bishop. "Señor Vicario, she can come to me. I -live near Taos. My wife is a native woman, and she'll be good to her. -That varmint won't come about my place, even if he breaks jail. He knows -me. My name is Carson." - -Father Latour had looked forward to meeting the scout. He had supposed -him to be a very large man, of powerful body and commanding presence. -This Carson was not so tall as the Bishop himself, was very slight in -frame, modest in manner, and he spoke English with a soft Southern -drawl. His face was both thoughtful and alert; anxiety had drawn a -permanent ridge between his blue eyes. Under his blond moustache his -mouth had a singular refinement. The lips were full and delicately -modelled. There was something curiously unconscious about his mouth, -reflective, a little melancholy,--and something that suggested a -capacity for tenderness. The Bishop felt a quick glow of pleasure in -looking at the man. As he stood there in his buckskin clothes one felt -in him standards, loyalties, a code which is not easily put into words -but which is instantly felt when two men who live by it come together by -chance. He took the scout's hand. "I have long wanted to meet Kit -Carson," he said, "even before I came to New Mexico. I have been hoping -you would pay me a visit at Santa Fé." - -The other smiled. "I'm right shy, sir, and I'm always afraid of being -disappointed. But I guess it will be all right from now on." - -This was the beginning of a long friendship. - -On their ride back to Carson's ranch, Magdalena was put in Father -Vaillant's care, and the Bishop and the scout rode together. Carson said -he had become a Catholic merely as a matter of form, as Americans -usually did when they married a Mexican girl. His wife was a good woman -and very devout; but religion had seemed to him pretty much a woman's -affair until his last trip to California. He had been sick out there, -and the Fathers at one of the missions took care of him. "I began to see -things different, and thought I might some day be a Catholic in earnest. -I was brought up to think priests were rascals, and that the nuns were -bad women,--all the stuff they talk back in Missouri. A good many of the -native priests here bear out that story. Our Padre Martinez at Taos is -an old scapegrace, if ever there was one; he's got children and -grandchildren in almost every settlement around here. And Padre Lucero -at Arroyo Hondo is a miser, takes everything a poor man's got to give -him a Christian burial." - -The Bishop discussed the needs of his people at length with Carson. He -felt great confidence in his judgment. The two men were about the same -age, both a little over forty, and both had been sobered and sharpened -by wide experience. Carson had been guide in world-renowned -explorations, but he was still almost as poor as in the days when he was -a beaver trapper. He lived in a little adobe house with his Mexican -wife. The great country of desert and mountain ranges between Santa Fé -and the Pacific coast was not yet mapped or charted; the most reliable -map of it was in Kit Carson's brain. This Missourian, whose eye was so -quick to read a landscape or a human face, could not read a printed -page. He could at that time barely write his own name. Yet one felt in -him a quick and discriminating intelligence. That he was illiterate was -an accident; he had got ahead of books, gone where the printing-press -could not follow him. Out of the hardships of his boyhood--from fourteen -to twenty picking up a bare living as cook or mule-driver for wagon -trains, often in the service of brutal and desperate characters--he had -preserved a clean sense of honour and a compassionate heart. In talking -to the Bishop of poor Magdalena he said sadly: "I used to see her in -Taos when she was such a pretty girl. Ain't it a pity?" - - -The degenerate murderer, Buck Scales, was hanged after a short trial. -Early in April the Bishop left Santa Fé on horseback and rode to St. -Louis, on his way to attend the Provincial Council at Baltimore. When he -returned in September, he brought back with him five courageous nuns, -Sisters of Loretto, to found a school for girls in letterless Santa Fé. -He sent at once for Magdalena and took her into the service of the -Sisters. She became housekeeper and manager of the Sisters' kitchen. She -was devoted to the nuns, and so happy in the service of the Church that -when the Bishop visited the school he used to enter by the -kitchen-garden in order to see her serene and handsome face. For she -became beautiful, as Carson said she had been as a girl. After the -blight of her horrible youth was over, she seemed to bloom again in the -household of God. - - - - -BOOK THREE - -_THE MASS AT ÁCOMA_ - - - - -1 - -THE WOODEN PARROT - - -DURING the first year after his arrival in Santa Fé, the Bishop was -actually in his diocese only about four months. Six months of that first -year were consumed in attending the Plenary Council at Baltimore, to -which he had been summoned. He went on horseback over the Santa Fé -trail to St. Louis, nearly a thousand miles, then by steamboat to -Pittsburgh, across the mountains to Cumberland, and on to Washington by -the new railroad. The return journey was even slower, as he had with him -the five nuns who came to found the school of Our Lady of Light. He -reached Santa Fé late in September. - -So far, Bishop Latour had been mainly employed on business that took him -far away from his Vicarate. His great diocese was still an unimaginable -mystery to him. He was eager to be abroad in it, to know his people; to -escape for a little from the cares of building and founding, and to go -westward among the old isolated Indian missions; Santo Domingo, breeder -of horses; Isleta, whitened with gypsum; Laguna, of wide pastures; and -finally, cloud-set Ácoma. - -In the golden October weather the Bishop, with his blankets and -coffee-pot, attended by Jacinto, a young Indian from the Pecos pueblo, -whom he employed as guide, set off to visit the Indian missions in the -west. He spent a night and a day at Albuquerque, with the genial and -popular Padre Gallegos. After Santa Fé, Albuquerque was the most -important parish in the diocese; the priest belonged to an influential -Mexican family, and he and the _rancheros_ had run their church to suit -themselves, making a very gay affair of it. Though Padre Gallegos was -ten years older than the Bishop, he would still dance the fandango five -nights running, as if he could never have enough of it. He had many -friends in the American colony, with whom he played poker and went -hunting, when he was not dancing with the Mexicans. His cellar was well -stocked with wines from El Paso del Norte, whisky from Taos, and grape -brandy from Bernalillo. He was genuinely hospitable, and the gambler -down on his luck, the soldier sobering up, were always welcome at his -table. The Padre was adored by a rich Mexican widow, who was hostess at -his supper parties, engaged his servants for him, made lace for the -altar and napery for his table. Every Sunday her carriage, the only -closed one in Albuquerque, waited in the plaza after Mass, and when the -priest had put off his vestments, he came out and was driven away to the -lady's hacienda for dinner. - -The Bishop and Father Vaillant had thoroughly examined the case of -Father Gallegos, and meant to end this scandalous state of things well -before Christmas. But on this visit Father Latour exhibited neither -astonishment nor displeasure at anything, and Padre Gallegos was cordial -and most ceremoniously polite. When the Bishop permitted himself to -express some surprise that there was not a confirmation class awaiting -him, the Padre explained smoothly that it was his custom to confirm -infants at their baptism. - -"It is all the same in a Christian community like ours. We know they -will receive religious instruction as they grow up, so we make good -Catholics of them in the beginning. Why not?" - -The Padre was uneasy lest the Bishop should require his attendance on -this trip out among the missions. He had no liking for scanty food and a -bed on the rocks. So, though he had been dancing only a few nights -before, he received his Superior with one foot bandaged up in an Indian -moccasin, and complained of a severe attack of gout. Asked when he had -last celebrated Mass at Ácoma, he made no direct reply. It used to be -his custom, he said, to go there in Passion Week, but the Ácoma Indians -were unreclaimed heathen at heart, and had no wish to be bothered with -the Mass. The last time he went out there, he was unable to get into the -church at all. The Indians pretended they had not the key; that the -Governor had it, and that he had gone on "Indian business" up into the -Cebolleta mountains. - -The Bishop did not wish Padre Gallegos's company upon his journey, was -very glad not to have the embarrassment of refusing it, and he rode away -from Albuquerque after polite farewells. Yet, he reflected, there was -something very engaging about Gallegos as a man. As a priest, he was -impossible; he was too self-satisfied and popular ever to change his -ways, and he certainly could not change his face. He did not look quite -like a professional gambler, but something smooth and twinkling in his -countenance suggested an underhanded mode of life. There was but one -course: to suspend the man from the exercise of all priestly functions, -and bid the smaller native priests take warning. - -Father Vaillant had told the Bishop that he must by all means stop a -night at Isleta, as he would like the priest there--Padre Jesus de Baca, -an old white-haired man, almost blind, who had been at Isleta many years -and had won the confidence and affection of his Indians. - -When he approached this pueblo of Isleta, gleaming white across a low -plain of grey sand, Father Latour's spirits rose. It was beautiful, that -warm, rich whiteness of the church and the clustered town, shaded by a -few bright acacia trees, with their intense blue-green like the colour -of old paper window-blinds. That tree always awakened pleasant memories, -recalling a garden in the south of France where he used to visit young -cousins. As he rode up to the church, the old priest came out to meet -him, and after his salutation stood looking at Father Latour, shading -his failing eyes with his hand. - -"And can this be my Bishop? So young a man?" he exclaimed. - -They went into the priest's house by way of a garden, walled in behind -the church. This enclosure was full of domesticated cactus plants, of -many varieties and great size (it seemed the Padre loved them), and -among these hung wicker cages made of willow twigs, full of parrots. -There were even parrots hopping about the sanded paths,--with one wing -clipped to keep them at home. Father Jesus explained that parrot -feathers were much prized by his Indians as ornaments for their -ceremonial robes, and he had long ago found he could please his -parishioners by raising the birds. - -The priest's house was white within and without, like all the Isleta -houses, and was almost as bare as an Indian dwelling. The old man was -poor, and too soft-hearted to press the pueblo people for pesos. An -Indian girl cooked his beans and cornmeal mush for him, he required -little else. The girl was not very skilful, he said, but she was clean -about her cooking. When the Bishop remarked that everything in this -pueblo, even the streets, seemed clean, the Padre told him that near -Isleta there was a hill of some white mineral, which the Indians ground -up and used as whitewash. They had done this from time immemorial, and -the village had always been noted for its whiteness. A little talk with -Father Jesus revealed that he was simple almost to childishness, and -very superstitious. But there was a quality of golden goodness about -him. His right eye was overgrown by a cataract, and he kept his head -tilted as if he were trying to see around it. All his movements were to -the left, as if he were reaching or walking about some obstacle in his -path. - -After coming to the house by way of a garden full of parrots, Father -Latour was amused to find that the sole ornament in the Padre's poor, -bare little _sala_ was a wooden parrot, perched in a hoop and hung from -one of the roof-logs. While Father Jesus was instructing his Indian girl -in the kitchen, the Bishop took this carving down from its perch to -examine it. It was cut from a single stick of wood, exactly the size of -a living bird, body and tail rigid and straight, the head a little -turned. The wings and tail and neck feathers were just indicated by the -tool, and thinly painted. He was surprised to feel how light it was; the -surface had the whiteness and velvety smoothness of very old wood. -Though scarcely carved at all, merely smoothed into shape, it was -strangely lifelike; a wooden pattern of parrots, as it were. - -The Padre smiled when he found the Bishop with the bird in his hand. - -"I see you have found my treasure! That, your Grace, is probably the -oldest thing in the pueblo--older than the pueblo itself." - -The parrot, Father Jesus said, had always been the bird of wonder and -desire to the pueblo Indians. In ancient times its feathers were more -valued than wampum and turquoises. Even before the Spaniards came, the -pueblos of northern New Mexico used to send explorers along the -dangerous and difficult trade routes down into tropical Mexico to bring -back upon their bodies a cargo of parrot feathers. To purchase these the -trader carried pouches full of turquoises from the Cerrillos hills near -Santa Fé. When, very rarely, a trader succeeded in bringing back a live -bird to his people, it was paid divine honours, and its death threw the -whole village into the deepest gloom. Even the bones were piously -preserved. There was in Isleta a parrot skull of great antiquity. His -wooden bird he had bought from an old man who was much indebted to him, -and who was about to die without descendants. Father Jesus had had his -eye upon the bird for years. The Indian told him that his ancestors, -generations ago, had brought it with them from the mother pueblo. The -priest fondly believed that it was a portrait, done from life, of one of -those rare birds that in ancient times were carried up alive, all the -long trail from the tropics. - -Father Jesus gave a good report of the Indians at Laguna and Ácoma. He -used to go to those pueblos to hold services when he was younger, and -had always found them friendly. - -"At Ácoma," he said, "you can see something very holy. They have there -a portrait of St. Joseph, sent to them by one of the Kings of Spain, -long ago, and it has worked many miracles. If the season is dry, the -Ácoma people take the picture down to their farms at Acomita, and it -never fails to produce rain. They have rain when none falls in all the -country, and they have crops when the Laguna Indians have none." - - - - -2 - -JACINTO - - -TAKING leave of Isleta and its priest early in the morning, Father -Latour and his guide rode all day through the dry desert plain west of -Albuquerque. It was like a country of dry ashes; no juniper, no rabbit -brush, nothing but thickets of withered, dead-looking cactus, and -patches of wild pumpkin--the only vegetation that had any vitality. It -is a vine, remarkable for its tendency, not to spread and ramble, but to -mass and mount. Its long, sharp, arrow-shaped leaves, frosted over with -prickly silver, are thrust upward and crowded together; the whole rigid, -up-thrust matted clump looks less like a plant than like a great colony -of grey-green lizards, moving and suddenly arrested by fear. - -As the morning wore on they had to make their way through a sand-storm -which quite obscured the sun. Jacinto knew the country well, having -crossed it often to go to the religious dances at Laguna, but he rode -with his head low and a purple handkerchief tied over his mouth. Coming -from a pueblo among woods and water, he had a poor opinion of this -plain. At noon he alighted and collected enough greasewood to boil the -Bishop's coffee. They knelt on either side of the fire, the sand curling -about them so that the bread became gritty as they ate it. - -The sun set red in an atmosphere murky with sand. The travellers made a -dry camp and rolled themselves in their blankets. All night a cold wind -blew over them. Father Latour was so stiff that he arose long before -day-break. The dawn came at last, fair and clear, and they made an early -start. - -About the middle of that afternoon Jacinto pointed out Laguna in the -distance, lying, apparently, in the midst of bright yellow waves of high -sand dunes--yellow as ochre. As they approached, Father Latour found -these were petrified sand dunes; long waves of soft, gritty yellow rock, -shining and bare except for a few lines of dark juniper that grew out of -the weather cracks,--little trees, and very, very old. At the foot of -this sweep of rock waves was the blue lake, a stone basin full of water, -from which the pueblo took its name. - -The kindly Padre at Isleta had sent his cook's brother off on foot to -warn the Laguna people that the new High Priest was coming, and that he -was a good man and did not want money. They were prepared, accordingly; -the church was clean and the doors were open; a small white church, -painted above and about the altar with gods of wind and rain and -thunder, sun and moon, linked together in a geometrical design of -crimson and blue and dark green, so that the end of the church seemed to -be hung with tapestry. It recalled to Father Latour the interior of a -Persian chieftain's tent he had seen in a textile exhibit at Lyons. -Whether this decoration had been done by Spanish missionaries or by -Indian converts, he was unable to find out. - -The Governor told him that his people would come to Mass in the morning, -and that there were a number of children to be baptized. He offered the -Bishop the sacristy for the night, but there was a damp, earthy smell -about that chamber, and Father Latour had already made up his mind that -he would like to sleep on the rock dunes, under the junipers. - -Jacinto got firewood and good water from the Lagunas, and they made -their camp in a pleasant spot on the rocks north of the village. As the -sun dropped low, the light brought the white church and the yellow adobe -houses up into relief from the flat ledges. Behind their camp, not far -away, lay a group of great mesas. The Bishop asked Jacinto if he knew -the name of the one nearest them. - -"No, I not know any name," he shook his head. "I know Indian name," he -added, as if, for once, he were thinking aloud. - -"And what is the Indian name?" - -"The Laguna Indians call Snow-Bird mountain." He spoke somewhat -unwillingly. - -"That is very nice," said the Bishop musingly. "Yes, that is a pretty -name." - -"Oh, Indians have nice names too!" Jacinto replied quickly, with a curl -of the lip. Then, as if he felt he had taken out on the Bishop a -reproach not deserved, he said in a moment: "The Laguna people think it -very funny for a big priest to be a young man. The Governor say, how can -I call him Padre when he is younger than my sons?" - -There was a note of pride in Jacinto's voice very flattering to the -Bishop. He had noticed how kind the Indian voice could be when it was -kind at all; a slight inflection made one feel that one had received a -great compliment. - -"I am not very young in heart, Jacinto. How old are you, my boy?" - -"Twenty-six." - -"Have you a son?" - -"One. Baby. Not very long born." - -Jacinto usually dropped the article in speaking Spanish, just as he did -in speaking English, though the Bishop had noticed that when he did give -a noun its article, he used the right one. The customary omission, -therefore, seemed to be a matter of taste, not ignorance. In the Indian -conception of language, such attachments were superfluous and -unpleasing, perhaps. - -They relapsed into the silence which was their usual form of -intercourse. The Bishop sat drinking his coffee slowly out of the tin -cup, keeping the pot near the embers. The sun had set now, the yellow -rocks were turning grey, down in the pueblo the light of the cook fires -made red patches of the glassless windows, and the smell of piñon smoke -came softly through the still air. The whole western sky was the colour -of golden ashes, with here and there a flush of red on the lip of a -little cloud. High above the horizon the evening-star flickered like a -lamp just lit, and close beside it was another star of constant light, -much smaller. - -Jacinto threw away the end of his cornhusk cigarette and again spoke -without being addressed. - -"The ev-en-ing-star," he said in English, slowly and somewhat -sententiously, then relapsed into Spanish. "You see the little star -beside, Padre? Indians call him the guide." - -The two companions sat, each thinking his own thoughts as night closed -in about them; a blue night set with stars, the bulk of the solitary -mesas cutting into the firmament. The Bishop seldom questioned Jacinto -about his thoughts or beliefs. He didn't think it polite, and he -believed it to be useless. There was no way in which he could transfer -his own memories of European civilization into the Indian mind, and he -was quite willing to believe that behind Jacinto there was a long -tradition, a story of experience, which no language could translate to -him. A chill came with the darkness. Father Latour put on his old -fur-lined cloak, and Jacinto, loosening the blanket tied about his -loins, drew it up over his head and shoulders. - -"Many stars," he said presently. "What you think about the stars, -Padre?" - -"The wise men tell us they are worlds, like ours, Jacinto." - -The end of the Indian's cigarette grew bright and then dull again before -he spoke. "I think not," he said in the tone of one who has considered a -proposition fairly and rejected it. "I think they are leaders--great -spirits." - -"Perhaps they are," said the Bishop with a sigh. "Whatever they are, -they are great. Let us say _Our Father_, and go to sleep, my boy." - -Kneeling on either side of the embers they repeated the prayer together -and then rolled up in their blankets. The Bishop went to sleep thinking -with satisfaction that he was beginning to have some sort of human -companionship with his Indian boy. One called the young Indians "boys," -perhaps because there was something youthful and elastic in their -bodies. Certainly about their behaviour there was nothing boyish in the -American sense, nor even in the European sense. Jacinto was never, by -any chance, naïf; he was never taken by surprise. One felt that his -training, whatever it had been, had prepared him to meet any situation -which might confront him. He was as much at home in the Bishop's study -as in his own pueblo--and he was never too much at home anywhere. Father -Latour felt he had gone a good way toward gaining his guide's friendship, -though he did not know how. - -The truth was, Jacinto liked the Bishop's way of meeting people; thought -he had the right tone with Padre Gallegos, the right tone with Padre -Jesus, and that he had good manners with the Indians. In his experience, -white people, when they addressed Indians, always put on a false face. -There were many kinds of false faces; Father Vaillant's, for example, -was kindly but too vehement. The Bishop put on none at all. He stood -straight and turned to the Governor of Laguna, and his face underwent no -change. Jacinto thought this remarkable. - - - - -3 - -THE ROCK - - -AFTER early Mass the next morning Father Latour and his guide rode off -across the low plain that lies between Laguna and Ácoma. In all his -travels the Bishop had seen no country like this. From the flat red sea -of sand rose great rock mesas, generally Gothic in outline, resembling -vast cathedrals. They were not crowded together in disorder, but placed -in wide spaces, long vistas between. This plain might once have been an -enormous city, all the smaller quarters destroyed by time, only the -public buildings left,--piles of architecture that were like mountains. -The sandy soil of the plain had a light sprinkling of junipers, and was -splotched with masses of blooming rabbit brush,--that olive-coloured -plant that grows in high waves like a tossing sea, at this season -covered with a thatch of bloom, yellow as gorse, or orange like -marigolds. - -This mesa plain had an appearance of great antiquity, and of -incompleteness; as if, with all the materials for world-making -assembled, the Creator had desisted, gone away and left everything on -the point of being brought together, on the eve of being arranged into -mountain, plain, plateau. The country was still waiting to be made into -a landscape. - -Ever afterward the Bishop remembered his first ride to Ácoma as his -introduction to the mesa country. One thing which struck him at once was -that every mesa was duplicated by a cloud mesa, like a reflection, which -lay motionless above it or moved slowly up from behind it. These cloud -formations seemed to be always there, however hot and blue the sky. -Sometimes they were flat terraces, ledges of vapour; sometimes they were -dome-shaped, or fantastic, like the tops of silvery pagodas, rising one -above another, as if an oriental city lay directly behind the rock. The -great tables of granite set down in an empty plain were inconceivable -without their attendant clouds, which were a part of them, as the smoke -is part of the censer, or the foam of the wave. - -Coming along the Santa Fé trail, in the vast plains of Kansas, Father -Latour had found the sky more a desert than the land; a hard, empty -blue, very monotonous to the eyes of a Frenchman. But west of the Pecos -all that changed; here there was always activity overhead, clouds -forming and moving all day long. Whether they were dark and full of -violence, or soft and white with luxurious idleness, they powerfully -affected the world beneath them. The desert, the mountains and mesas, -were continually re-formed and re-coloured by the cloud shadows. The -whole country seemed fluid to the eye under this constant change of -accent, this ever-varying distribution of light. - -Jacinto interrupted these reflections by an exclamation. - -"Ácoma!" He stopped his mule. - -The Bishop, following with his eye the straight, pointing Indian hand, -saw, far away, two great mesas. They were almost square in shape, and at -this distance seemed close together, though they were really some miles -apart. - -"The far one"--his guide still pointed. - -The Bishop's eyes were not so sharp as Jacinto's, but now, looking down -upon the top of the farther mesa from the high land on which they -halted, he saw a flat white outline on the grey surface--a white square -made up of squares. That, his guide said, was the pueblo of Ácoma. - -Riding on, they presently drew rein under the Enchanted Mesa, and -Jacinto told him that on this, too, there had once been a village, but -the stairway which had been the only access to it was broken off by a -great storm many centuries ago, and its people had perished up there -from hunger. - -But how, the Bishop asked him, did men first think of living on the top -of naked rocks like these, hundreds of feet in the air, without soil or -water? - -Jacinto shrugged. "A man can do whole lot when they hunt him day and -night like an animal. Navajos on the north, Apaches on the south; the -Ácoma run up a rock to be safe." - -All this plain, the Bishop gathered, had once been the scene of a -periodic man-hunt; these Indians, born in fear and dying by violence for -generations, had at last taken this leap away from the earth, and on -that rock had found the hope of all suffering and tormented -creatures--safety. They came down to the plain to hunt and to grow their -crops, but there was always a place to go back to. If a band of Navajos -were on the Ácoma's trail, there was still one hope; if he could reach -his rock--Sanctuary! On the winding stone stairway up the cliff, a -handful of men could keep off a multitude. The rock of Ácoma had never -been taken by a foe but once,--by Spaniards in armour. It was very -different from a mountain fastness; more lonely, more stark and grim, -more appealing to the imagination. The rock, when one came to think of -it, was the utmost expression of human need; even mere feeling yearned -for it; it was the highest comparison of loyalty in love and friendship. -Christ Himself had used that comparison for the disciple to whom He gave -the keys of His Church. And the Hebrews of the Old Testament, always -being carried captive into foreign lands,--their rock was an idea of -God, the only thing their conquerors could not take from them. - -Already the Bishop had observed in Indian life a strange literalness, -often shocking and disconcerting. The Ácomas, who must share the -universal human yearning for something permanent, enduring, without -shadow of change,--they had their idea in substance. They actually lived -upon their Rock; were born upon it and died upon it. There was an -element of exaggeration in anything so simple! - -As they drew near the Ácoma mesa, dark clouds began boiling up from -behind it, like ink spots spreading in a brilliant sky. - -"Rain come," remarked Jacinto. "That is good. They will be well -disposed." He left the mules in a stake corral at the foot of the mesa, -took up the blankets, and hurried Father Latour into the narrow crack in -the rock where the craggy edges formed a kind of natural stairway up the -cliff. Wherever the footing was treacherous, it was helped out by little -handholds, ground into the stone like smooth mittens. The mesa was -absolutely naked of vegetation, but at its foot a rank plant grew -conspicuously out of the sand; a plant with big white blossoms like -Easter lilies. By its dark blue-green leaves, large and coarse-toothed, -Father Latour recognized a species of the noxious datura. The size and -luxuriance of these nightshades astonished him. They looked like great -artificial plants, made of shining silk. - -While they were ascending the rock, deafening thunder broke over their -heads, and the rain began to fall as if it were spilled from a -cloud-burst. Drawing into a deep twist of the stairway, under an -overhanging ledge, they watched the water shaken in heavy curtains in -the air before them. In a moment the seam in which they stood was like -the channel of a brook. Looking out over the great plain spotted with -mesas and glittering with rain sheets, the Bishop saw the distant -mountains bright with sunlight. Again he thought that the first Creation -morning might have looked like this, when the dry land was first drawn -up out of the deep, and all was confusion. - -The storm was over in half an hour. By the time the Bishop and his guide -reached the last turn in the trail, and rose through the crack, stepping -out on the flat top of the rock, the noontide sun was blazing down upon -Ácoma with almost insupportable brightness. The bare stone floor of the -town and its deepworn paths were washed white and clean, and those -depressions in the surface which the Ácomas call their cisterns, were -full of fresh rain water. Already the women were bringing out their -clothes, to begin washing. The drinking water was carried up the -stairway in earthen jars on the heads of the women, from a secret spring -below; but for all other purposes the people depended on the rainfall -held in these cisterns. - -The top of the mesa was about ten acres in extent, the Bishop judged, -and there was not a tree or a blade of green upon it; not a handful of -soil, except the churchyard, held in by an adobe wall, where the earth -for burial had been carried up in baskets from the plain below. The -white dwellings, two and three storeyed, were not scattered, but huddled -together in a close cluster, with no protecting slope of ground or -shoulder of rock, lying flat against the flat, bright against the -bright,--both the rock and the plastered houses threw off the sun glare -blindingly. - -At the very edge of the mesa, overhanging the abyss so that its -retaining wall was like a part of the cliff itself, was the old warlike -church of Ácoma, with its two stone towers. Gaunt, grim, grey, its nave -rising some seventy feet to a sagging, half-ruined roof, it was more -like a fortress than a place of worship. That spacious interior -depressed the Bishop as no other mission church had done. He held a -service there before midday, and he had never found it so hard to go -through the ceremony of the Mass. Before him, on the grey floor, in the -grey light, a group of bright shawls and blankets, some fifty or sixty -silent faces; above and behind them the grey walls. He felt as if he -were celebrating Mass at the bottom of the sea, for antediluvian -creatures; for types of life so old, so hardened, so shut within their -shells, that the sacrifice on Calvary could hardly reach back so far. -Those shell-like backs behind him might be saved by baptism and divine -grace, as undeveloped infants are, but hardly through any experience of -their own, he thought. When he blessed them and sent them away, it was -with a sense of inadequacy and spiritual defeat. - -After he had laid aside his vestments, Father Latour went over the -church with Jacinto. As he examined it his wonder grew. What need had -there ever been for this great church at Ácoma? It was built early in -sixteen hundred, by Fray Juan Ramirez, a great missionary, who laboured -on the Rock of Ácoma for twenty years or more. It was Father Ramirez, -too, who made the mule trail down the other side,--the only path by -which a burro can ascend the mesa, and which is still called "El Camino -del Padre." - -The more Father Latour examined this church, the more he was inclined to -think that Fray Ramirez, or some Spanish priest who followed him, was -not altogether innocent of worldly ambition, and that they built for -their own satisfaction, perhaps, rather than according to the needs of -the Indians. The magnificent site, the natural grandeur of this -stronghold, might well have turned their heads a little. Powerful men -they must have been, those Spanish Fathers, to draft Indian labour for -this great work without military support. Every stone in that structure, -every handful of earth in those many thousand pounds of adobe, was -carried up the trail on the backs of men and boys and women. And the -great carved beams of the roof--Father Latour looked at them with -amazement. In all the plain through which he had come he had seen no -trees but a few stunted piñons. He asked Jacinto where these huge -timbers could have been found. - -"San Mateo mountain, I guess." - -"But the San Mateo mountains must be forty or fifty miles away. How -could they bring such timbers?" - -Jacinto shrugged. "Ácomas carry." Certainly there was no other -explanation. - -Besides the church proper there was the cloister, large, thick-walled, -which must have required an enormous labour of portage from the plain. -The deep cloister corridors were cool when the rock outside was -blistering; the low arches opened on an enclosed garden which, judging -from its depth of earth, must once have been very verdant. Pacing those -shady passages, with four feet of solid, windowless adobe shutting out -everything but the green garden and the turquoise sky above, the early -missionaries might well have forgotten the poor Ácomas, that tribe of -ancient rock-turtles, and believed themselves in some cloister hung on a -spur of the Pyrenees. - -In the grey dust of the enclosed garden two thin, half-dead peach trees -still struggled with the drouth, the kind of unlikely tree that grows up -from an old root and never bears. By the wall yellow suckers put out -from an old vine stump, very thick and hard, which must once have borne -its ripe clusters. - -Built upon the north-east corner of the cloister the Bishop found a -loggia--roofed, but with open sides, looking down on the white pueblo -and the tawny rock, and over the wide plain below. There he decided he -would spend the night. From this loggia he watched the sun go down; -watched the desert become dark, the shadows creep upward. Abroad in the -plain the scattered mesa tops, red with the afterglow, one by one lost -their light, like candles going out. He was on a naked rock in the -desert, in the stone age, a prey to homesickness for his own kind, his -own epoch, for European man and his glorious history of desire and -dreams. Through all the centuries that his own part of the world had -been changing like the sky at day-break, this people had been fixed, -increasing neither in numbers nor desires, rock-turtles on their rock. -Something reptilian he felt here, something that had endured by -immobility, a kind of life out of reach, like the crustaceans in their -armour. - -On his homeward way the Bishop spent another night with Father Jesus, -the good priest at Isleta, who talked with him much of the Moqui country -and of those very old rock-set pueblos still farther to the west. One -story related to a long-forgotten friar at Ácoma, and was somewhat as -follows: - - - - -4 - -THE LEGEND OF FRAY BALTAZAR - - -SOME time in the very early years of seventeen hundred, nearly fifty -years after the great Indian uprising in which all the missionaries and -all the Spaniards in northern New Mexico were either driven out or -murdered, after the country had been reconquered and new missionaries -had come to take the place of the martyrs, a certain Friar Baltazar -Montoya was priest at Ácoma. He was of a tyrannical and overbearing -disposition and bore a hard hand on the natives. All the missions now in -ruins were active then, each had its resident priest, who lived for the -people or upon the people, according to his nature. Friar Baltazar was -one of the most ambitious and exacting. It was his belief that the -pueblo of Ácoma existed chiefly to support its fine church, and that -this should be the pride of the Indians as it was his. He took the best -of their corn and beans and squashes for his table, and selected the -choicest portions when they slaughtered a sheep, chose their best hides -to carpet his dwelling. Moreover, he exacted a heavy tribute in labour. -He was never done with having earth carried up from the plain in -baskets. He enlarged the churchyard and made the deep garden in the -cloister, enriching it with dung from the corrals. Here he was able to -grow a wonderful garden, since it was watered every evening by -women,--and this despite the fact that it was not proper that a woman -should ever enter the cloister at all. Each woman owed the Padre so many -_ollas_ of water a week from the cisterns, and they murmured not only -because of the labour, but because of the drain on their water-supply. - -Baltazar was not a lazy man, and in his first years there, before he -became stout, he made long journeys in behalf of his mission and his -garden. He went as far as Oraibi, many days' journey, to select their -best peach seeds. (The peach orchards of Oraibi were very old, having -been cultivated since the days of the earliest Spanish expeditions, when -Coronado's captains gave the Moquis peach seeds brought from Spain.) His -grape cuttings were brought from Sonora in baskets on muleback, and he -would go all the way to the Villa (Santa Fé) for choice garden seeds, -at the season when pack trains came up the Rio Grande valley. The early -churchmen did a great business in carrying seeds about, though the -Indians and Mexicans were satisfied with beans and squashes and chili, -asking nothing more. - -Friar Baltazar was from a religious house in Spain which was noted for -good living, and he himself had worked in the refectory. He was an -excellent cook and something of a carpenter, and he took a great deal of -trouble to make himself comfortable upon that rock at the end of the -world. He drafted two Indian boys into his service, one to care for his -ass and work in the garden, the other to cook and wait upon him at -table. In time, as he grew more unwieldy in figure, he adopted a third -boy and employed him as a runner to the distant missions. This boy would -go on foot all the way to the Villa for red cloth or an iron spade or a -new knife, stopping at Bernalillo to bring home a wineskin full of grape -brandy. He would go five days' journey to the Sandia mountains to catch -fish and dry or salt them for the Padre's fast-days, or run to Zuñi, -where the Fathers raised rabbits, and bring back a pair for the spit. -His errands were seldom of an ecclesiastical nature. - -It was clear that the Friar at Ácoma lived more after the flesh than -after the spirit. The difficulty of obtaining an interesting and varied -diet on a naked rock seemed only to whet his appetite and tempt his -resourcefulness. But his sensuality went no further than his garden and -table. Carnal commerce with the Indian women would have been very easy -indeed, and the Friar was at the hardy age of ripe manhood when such -temptations are peculiarly sharp. But the missionaries had early -discovered that the slightest departure from chastity greatly weakened -their influence and authority with their Indian converts. The Indians -themselves sometimes practised continence as a penance, or as a strong -medicine with the spirits, and they were very willing that their Padre -should practise it for them. The consequences of carnal indulgence were -perhaps more serious here than in Spain, and Friar Baltazar seems never -to have given his flock an opportunity to exult over his frailty. - -He held his seat at Ácoma for nearly fifteen prosperous years, -constantly improving his church and his living-quarters, growing new -vegetables and medicinal herbs, making soap from the yucca root. Even -after he became stout, his arms were strong and muscular, his fingers -clever. He cultivated his peach trees, and watched over his garden like -a little kingdom, never allowing the native women to grow slack in the -water-supply. His first serving-boys were released to marry, and others -succeeded them, who were even more minutely trained. - -Baltazar's tyranny grew little by little, and the Ácoma people were -sometimes at the point of revolt. But they could not estimate just how -powerful the Padre's magic might be and were afraid to put it to the -test. There was no doubt that the holy picture of St. Joseph had come to -them from the King of Spain by the request of this Padre, and that -picture had been more effective in averting drouth than all the native -rain-makers had been. Properly entreated and honoured, the painting had -never failed to produce rain. Ácoma had not lost its crops since Friar -Baltazar first brought the picture to them, though at Laguna and Zuñi -there had been drouths that compelled the people to live upon their -famine store,--an alarming extremity. - -The Laguna Indians were constantly sending legations to Ácoma to -negotiate terms at which they could rent the holy picture, but Friar -Baltazar had warned them never to let it go. If such powerful protection -were withdrawn, or if the Padre should turn the magic against them, the -consequences might be disastrous to the pueblo. Better give him his -choice of grain and lambs and pottery, and allow him his three -serving-boys. So the missionary and his converts rubbed along in seeming -friendliness. - -One summer the Friar, who did not make long journeys now that he had -grown large in girth, decided that he would like company,--someone to -admire his fine garden, his ingenious kitchen, his airy loggia with its -rugs and water jars, where he meditated and took his after-dinner -siesta. So he planned to give a dinner party in the week after St. -John's Day. - -He sent his runner to Zuñi, Laguna, Isleta, and bade the Padres to a -feast. They came upon the day, four of them, for there were two priests -at Zuñi. The stable-boy was stationed at the foot of the rock to take -their beasts and conduct the visitors up the stairway. At the head of -the trail Baltazar received them. They were shown over the place, and -spent the morning gossiping in the cloister walks, cool and silent, -though the naked rock outside was almost too hot for the hand to touch. -The vine leaves rustled agreeably in the breeze, and the earth about the -carrot and onion tops, as it dried from last night's watering, gave off -a pleasant smell. The guests thought their host lived very well, and -they wished they had his secret. If he was a trifle boastful of his -air-bound seat, no one could blame him. - -With the dinner, Baltazar had taken extravagant pains. The monastery in -which he had learned to cook was off the main highway to Seville; the -Spanish nobles and the King himself sometimes stopped there for -entertainment. In that great kitchen, with its multiplicity of spits, -small enough to roast a lark and large enough to roast a boar, the Friar -had learned a thing or two about sauces, and in his lonely years at -Ácoma he had bettered his instruction by a natural aptitude for the -art. The poverty of materials had proved an incentive rather than a -discouragement. - -Certainly the visiting missionaries had never sat down to food like that -which rejoiced them to-day in the cool refectory, the blinds open just -enough to admit a streak of throbbing desert far below them. Their host -was telling them pompously that he would have a fountain in the cloister -close when they came again. He had to check his hungry guests in their -zeal for the relishes and the soup, warning them to save their mettle -for what was to come. The roast was to be a wild turkey, superbly -done--but that, alas, was never tasted. The course which preceded it was -the host's especial care, and here he had trusted nothing to his cook; -hare _jardinière_ (his carrots and onions were tender and well -flavoured), with a sauce which he had been perfecting for many years. -This entrée was brought from the kitchen in a large earthen dish--but -not large enough, for with its luxury of sauce and floating carrots it -filled the platter to the brim. The stable-boy was serving to-day, as -the cook could not leave his spits, and he had been neat, brisk, and -efficient. The Friar was pleased with him, and was wondering whether he -could not find some little medal of bronze or silver-gilt to reward him -for his pains. - -When the hare in its sauce came on, the priest from Isleta chanced to be -telling a funny story at which the company were laughing uproariously. -The serving-boy, who knew a little Spanish, was apparently trying to get -the point of the recital which made the Padres so merry. At any rate, he -became distracted, and as he passed behind the senior priest of Zuñi, -he tipped his full platter and spilled a stream of rich brown gravy over -the good man's head and shoulders. Baltazar was quick-tempered, and he -had been drinking freely of the fiery grape brandy. He caught up the -empty pewter mug at his right and threw it at the clumsy lad with a -malediction. It struck the boy on the side of the head. He dropped the -platter, staggered a few steps, and fell down. He did not get up, nor -did he move. The Padre from Zuñi was skilled in medicine. Wiping the -sauce from his eyes, he bent over the boy and examined him. - -"_Muerto_," he whispered. With that he plucked his junior priest by the -sleeve, and the two bolted across the garden without another word and -made for the head of the stairway. In a moment the Padres of Laguna and -Isleta unceremoniously followed their example. With remarkable speed the -four guests got them down from the rock, saddled their mules, and urged -them across the plain. - -Baltazar was left alone with the consequences of his haste. -Unfortunately the cook, astonished at the prolonged silence, had looked -in at the door just as the last pair of brown gowns were vanishing -across the cloister. He saw his comrade lying upon the floor, and -silently disappeared from the premises by an exit known only to himself. - -When Friar Baltazar went into the kitchen he found it solitary, the -turkey still dripping on the spit. Certainly he had no appetite for the -roast. He felt, indeed, very remorseful and uncomfortable, also -indignant with his departed guests. For a moment he entertained the idea -of following them; but a temporary flight would only weaken his -position, and a permanent evacuation was not to be thought of. His -garden was at its prime, his peaches were just coming ripe, and his -vines hung heavy with green clusters. Mechanically he took the turkey -from the spit, not because he felt any inclination for food, but from an -instinct of compassion, quite as if the bird could suffer from being -burned to a crisp. This done, he repaired to his loggia and sat down to -read his breviary, which he had neglected for several days, having been -so occupied in the refectory. He had begrudged no pains to that sauce -which had been his undoing. - -The airy loggia, where he customarily took his afternoon repose, was -like a birdcage hung in the breeze. Through its open archways he looked -down on the huddled pueblo, and out over the great mesa-strewn plain far -below. He was unable to fix his mind upon his office. The pueblo down -there was much too quiet. At this hour there should be a few women -washing pots or rags, a few children playing by the cisterns and chasing -the turkeys. But to-day the rock top baked in the fire of the sun in -utter silence, not one human being was visible--yes, one, though he had -not been there a moment ago. At the head of the stone stairway, there -was a patch of lustrous black, just above the rocks; an Indian's hair. -They had set a guard at the trail head. - -Now the Padre began to feel alarmed, to wish he had gone down that -stairway with the others, while there was yet time. He wished he were -anywhere in the world but on this rock. There was old Father Ramirez's -donkey path; but if the Indians were watching one road, they would watch -the other. The spot of black hair never stirred; and there were but -those two ways down to the plain, only those ... Whichever way one -turned, three hundred and fifty feet of naked cliff, without one tree or -shrub a man could cling to. - -As the sun sank lower and lower, there began a deep, singing murmur of -male voices from the pueblo below him, not a chant, but the rhythmical -intonation of Indian oratory when a serious matter is under discussion. -Frightful stories of the torture of the missionaries in the great -rebellion of 1680 flashed into Friar Baltazar's mind; how one Franciscan -had his eyes torn out, another had been burned, and the old Padre at -Jamez had been stripped naked and driven on all fours about the plaza -all night, with drunken Indians straddling his back, until he rolled -over dead from exhaustion. - -Moonrise from the loggia was an impressive sight, even to this Brother -who was not over-impressionable. But to-night he wished he could keep -the moon from coming up through the floor of the desert,--the moon was -the clock which began things in the pueblo. He watched with horror for -that golden rim against the deep blue velvet of the night. - -The moon came, and at its coming the Ácoma people issued from their -doors. A company of men walked silently across the rock to the cloister. -They came up the ladder and appeared in the loggia. The Friar asked them -gruffly what they wanted, but they made no reply. Not once speaking to -him or to each other, they bound his feet together and tied his arms to -his sides. - -The Ácoma people told afterwards that he did not supplicate or -struggle; had he done so, they might have dealt more cruelly with him. -But he knew his Indians, and that when once they had collectively made -up their pueblo mind ... Moreover, he was a proud old Spaniard, and had -a certain fortitude lodged in his well-nourished body. He was accustomed -to command, not to entreat, and he retained the respect of his Indian -vassals to the end. - -They carried him down the ladder and through the cloister and across the -rock to the most precipitous cliff--the one over which the Ácoma women -flung broken pots and such refuse as the turkeys would not eat. There -the people were assembled. They cut his bonds, and taking him by the -hands and feet, swung him out over the rock-edge and back a few times. -He was heavy, and perhaps they thought this dangerous sport. No sound -but hissing breath came through his teeth. The four executioners took -him up again from the brink where they had laid him, and, after a few -feints, dropped him in mid-air. - -So did they rid their rock of their tyrant, whom on the whole they had -liked very well. But everything has its day. The execution was not -followed by any sacrilege to the church or defiling of holy vessels, but -merely by a division of the Padre's stores and household goods. The -women, indeed, took pleasure in watching the garden pine and waste away -from thirst, and ventured into the cloisters to laugh and chatter at the -whitening foliage of the peach trees, and the green grapes shrivelling -on the vines. - -When the next priest came, years afterward, he found no ill will -awaiting him. He was a native Mexican, of unpretentious tastes, who was -well satisfied with beans and jerked meat, and let the pueblo turkey -flock scratch in the hot dust that had once been Baltazar's garden. The -old peach stumps kept sending up pale sprouts for many years. - - - - -BOOK FOUR - -_SNAKE ROOT_ - - - - -1 - -THE NIGHT AT PECOS - - -A MONTH after the Bishop's visit to Albuquerque and Ácoma, the genial -Father Gallegos was formally suspended, and Father Vaillant himself took -charge of the parish. At first there was bitter feeling; the rich -_rancheros_ and the merry ladies of Albuquerque were very hostile to the -French priest. He began his reforms at once. Everything was changed. The -holy-days, which had been occasions of revelry under Padre Gallegos, -were now days of austere devotion. The fickle Mexican population soon -found as much diversion in being devout as they had once found in being -scandalous. Father Vaillant wrote to his sister Philomène, in France, -that the temper of his parish was like that of a boys' school; under one -master the lads try to excel one another in mischief and disobedience, -under another they vie with each other in acts of loyalty. The Novena -preceding Christmas, which had long been celebrated by dances and -hilarious merry-making, was this year a great revival of religious zeal. - -Though Father Vaillant had all the duties of a parish priest at -Albuquerque, he was still Vicar General, and in February the Bishop -dispatched him on urgent business to Las Vegas. He did not return on the -day that he was expected, and when several days passed with no word from -him, Father Latour began to feel some anxiety. - -One morning at day-break a very sick Indian boy rode into the Bishop's -courtyard on Father Joseph's white mule, Contento, bringing bad news. -The Padre, he said, had stopped at his village in the Pecos mountains -where black measles had broken out, to give the sacrament to the dying, -and had fallen ill of the sickness. The boy himself had been well when -he started for Santa Fé, but had become sick on the way. - -The Bishop had the messenger put into the wood-house, an isolated -building at the end of the garden, where the Sisters of Loretto could -tend him. He instructed the Mother Superior to pack a bag with such -medicines and comforts for the sick as he could carry, and told -Fructosa, his cook, to put up for him the provisions he usually took on -horseback journeys. When his man brought a pack-mule and his own mule, -Angelica, to the door, Father Latour, already in his rough -riding-breeches and buckskin jacket, looked at the handsome beast and -shook his head. - -"No, leave her with Contento. The new army mule is heavier, and will do -for this journey." - -The Bishop rode out of Santa Fé two hours after the Indian messenger -rode in. He was going direct to the pueblo of Pecos, where he would pick -up Jacinto. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the pueblo, -lying low on its red rock ledges, half-surrounded by a crown of fir-clad -mountains, and facing a sea of junipers and cedars. The Bishop had meant -to get fresh horses at Pecos and push on through the mountains, but -Jacinto and the older Indians who gathered about the horseman, strongly -advised him to spend the night there and start in the early morning. The -sun was shining brilliantly in a blue sky, but in the west, behind the -mountain, lay a great stationary black cloud, opaque and motionless as a -ledge of rock. The old men looked at it and shook their heads. - -"Very big wind," said the governor gravely. - -Unwillingly the Bishop dismounted and gave his mules to Jacinto; it -seemed to him that he was wasting time. There was still an hour before -nightfall, and he spent that hour pacing up and down the crust of bare -rock between the village and the ruin of the old mission church. The sun -was sinking, a red ball which threw a copper glow over the pine-covered -ridge of mountains, and edged that inky, ominous cloud with molten -silver. The great red earth walls of the mission, red as brick-dust, -yawned gloomily before him,--part of the roof had fallen in, and the -rest would soon go. - -At this moment Father Joseph was lying dangerously ill in the dirt and -discomfort of an Indian village in winter. Why, the Bishop was asking -himself, had he ever brought his friend to this life of hardship and -danger? Father Vaillant had been frail from childhood, though he had the -endurance resulting from exhaustless enthusiasm. The Brothers at -Montferrand were not given to coddling boys, but every year they used to -send this one away for a rest in the high Volvic mountains, because his -vitality ran down under the confinement of college life. Twice, while he -and Father Latour were missionaries in Ohio, Joseph had been at death's -door; once so ill with cholera that the newspapers had printed his name -in the death list. On that occasion their Ohio Bishop had christened him -_Trompe-la-Mort_. Yes, Father Latour told himself, _Blanchet_ had -outwitted death so often, there was always the chance he would do it -again. - -Walking about the walls of the ruin, the Bishop discovered that the -sacristy was dry and clean, and he decided to spend the night there, -wrapped in his blankets, on one of the earthen benches that ran about -the inner walls. While he was examining this room, the wind began to -howl about the old church, and darkness fell quickly. From the low -doorways of the pueblo ruddy fire-light was gleaming--singularly -grateful to the eye. Waiting for him on the rocks, he recognized the -slight figure of Jacinto, his blanket drawn close about his head, his -shoulders bowed to the wind. - -The young Indian said that supper was ready, and the Bishop followed him -to his particular lair in those rows of little houses all alike and all -built together. There was a ladder before Jacinto's door which led up to -a second storey, but that was the dwelling of another family; the roof -of Jacinto's house made a veranda for the family above him. The Bishop -bent his head under the low doorway and stepped down; the floor of the -room was a long step below the doorsill--the Indian way of preventing -drafts. The room into which he descended was long and narrow, smoothly -whitewashed, and clean, to the eye, at least, because of its very -bareness. There was nothing on the walls but a few fox pelts and strings -of gourds and red peppers. The richly coloured blankets of which Jacinto -was very proud were folded in piles on the earth settle,--it was there -he and his wife slept, near the fire-place. The earth of that settle -became warm during the day and held its heat until morning, like the -Russian peasants' stove-bed. Over the fire a pot of beans and dried meat -was simmering. The burning piñon logs filled the room with -sweet-smelling smoke. Clara, Jacinto's wife, smiled at the priest as he -entered. She ladled out the stew, and the Bishop and Jacinto sat down on -the floor beside the fire, each with his bowl. Between them Clara put a -basin full of hot corn-bread baked with squash seeds,--an Indian -delicacy comparable to raisin bread among the whites. The Bishop said a -blessing and broke the bread with his hands. While the two men ate, the -young woman watched them and stirred a tiny cradle of deerskin which -hung by thongs from the roof poles. Jacinto, when questioned, said sadly -that the baby was ailing. Father Latour did not ask to see it; it would -be swathed in layers of wrappings, he knew; even its face and head would -be covered against drafts. Indian babies were never bathed in winter, -and it was useless to suggest treatment for the sick ones. On that -subject the Indian ear was closed to advice. - -It was a pity, too, that he could do nothing for Jacinto's baby. Cradles -were not many in the pueblo of Pecos. The tribe was dying out; infant -mortality was heavy, and the young couples did not reproduce -freely,--the life-force seemed low. Smallpox and measles had taken heavy -toll here time and again. - -Of course there were other explanations, credited by many good people in -Santa Fé. Pecos had more than its share of dark legends,--perhaps that -was because it had been too tempting to white men, and had had more than -its share of history. It was said that this people had from time -immemorial kept a ceremonial fire burning in some cave in the mountain, -a fire that had never been allowed to go out, and had never been -revealed to white men. The story was that the service of this fire -sapped the strength of the young men appointed to serve it,--always the -best of the tribe. Father Latour thought this hardly probable. Why -should it be very arduous, in a mountain full of timber, to feed a fire -so small that its whereabouts had been concealed for centuries? - -There was also the snake story, reported by the early explorers, both -Spanish and American, and believed ever since: that this tribe was -peculiarly addicted to snake worship, that they kept rattlesnakes -concealed in their houses, and somewhere in the mountain guarded an -enormous serpent which they brought to the pueblo for certain feasts. It -was said that they sacrificed young babies to the great snake, and thus -diminished their numbers. - -It seemed much more likely that the contagious diseases brought by white -men were the real cause of the shrinkage of the tribe. Among the -Indians, measles, scarlatina and whooping-cough were as deadly as typhus -or cholera. Certainly, the tribe was decreasing every year. Jacinto's -house was at one end of the living pueblo; behind it were long rock -ridges of dead pueblo,--empty houses ruined by weather and now scarcely -more than piles of earth and stone. The population of the living streets -was less than one hundred adults.[1] This was all that was left of the -rich and populous Cicuyè of Coronado's expedition. Then, by his report, -there were six thousand souls in the Indian town. They had rich fields -irrigated from the Pecos River. The streams were full of fish, the -mountain was full of game. The pueblo, indeed, seemed to lie upon the -knees of these verdant mountains, like a favoured child. Out yonder, on -the juniper-spotted plateau in front of the village, the Spaniards had -camped, exacting a heavy tribute of corn and furs and cotton garments -from their hapless hosts. It was from here, the story went, that they -set forth in the spring on their ill-fated search for the seven golden -cities of Quivera, taking with them slaves and concubines ravished from -the Pecos people. - -As Father Latour sat by the fire and listened to the wind sweeping down -from the mountains and howling over the plateau, he thought of these -things; and he could not help wondering whether Jacinto, sitting silent -by the same fire, was thinking of them, too. The wind, he knew, was -blowing out of the inky cloud bank that lay behind the mountain at -sunset; but it might well be blowing out of a remote, black past. The -only human voice raised against it was the feeble wailing of the sick -child in the cradle. Clara ate noiselessly in a corner, Jacinto looked -into the fire. - -The Bishop read his breviary by the fire-light for an hour. Then, warmed -to the bone and assured that his roll of blankets was warmed through, he -rose to go. Jacinto followed with the blankets and one of his own -buffalo robes. They went along a line of red doorways and across the -bare rock to the gaunt ruin, whose lateral walls, with their buttresses, -still braved the storm and let in the starlight. - - -[Footnote 1: _In actual fact, the dying pueblo of Pecos was abandoned -some years before the American occupation of New Mexico._] - - - - - -2 - -STONE LIPS - - -IT was not difficult for the Bishop to waken early. After midnight his -body became more and more chilled and cramped. He said his prayers -before he rolled out of his blankets, remembering Father Vaillant's -maxim that if you said your prayers first, you would find plenty of time -for other things afterward. - -Going through the silent pueblo to Jacinto's door, the Bishop woke him -and asked him to make a fire. While the Indian went to get the mules -ready, Father Latour got his coffee-pot and tin cup out of his -saddle-bags, and a round loaf of Mexican bread. With bread and black -coffee, he could travel day after day. Jacinto was for starting without -breakfast, but Father Latour made him sit down and share his loaf. Bread -is never too plenty in Indian households. Clara was still lying on the -settle with her baby. - -At four o'clock they were on the road, Jacinto riding the mule that -carried the blankets. He knew the trails through his own mountains well -enough to follow them in the dark. Toward noon the Bishop suggested a -halt to rest the mules, but his guide looked at the sky and shook his -head. The sun was nowhere to be seen, the air was thick and grey and -smelled of snow. Very soon the snow began to fall--lightly at first, but -all the while becoming heavier. The vista of pine trees ahead of them -grew shorter and shorter through the vast powdering of descending -flakes. A little after midday a burst of wind sent the snow whirling in -coils about the two travellers, and a great storm broke. The wind was -like a hurricane at sea, and the air became blind with snow. The Bishop -could scarcely see his guide--saw only parts of him, now a head, now a -shoulder, now only the black rump of his mule. Pine trees by the way -stood out for a moment, then disappeared absolutely in the whirlpool of -snow. Trail and landmarks, the mountain itself, were obliterated. - -Jacinto sprang from his mule and unstrapped the roll of blankets. -Throwing the saddle-bags to the Bishop, he shouted, "Come, I know a -place. Be quick, Padre." - -The Bishop protested they could not leave the mules. Jacinto said the -mules must take their chance. - -For Father Latour the next hour was a test of endurance. He was blind -and breathless, panting through his open mouth. He clambered over -half-visible rocks, fell over prostrate trees, sank into deep holes and -struggled out, always following the red blankets on the shoulders of the -Indian boy, which stuck out when the boy himself was lost to sight. - -Suddenly the snow seemed thinner. The guide stopped short. They were -standing, the Bishop made out, under an overhanging wall of rock which -made a barrier against the storm. Jacinto dropped the blankets from his -shoulder and seemed to be preparing to climb the cliff. Looking up, the -Bishop saw a peculiar formation in the rocks; two rounded ledges, one -directly over the other, with a mouth-like opening between. They -suggested two great stone lips, slightly parted and thrust outward. Up -to this mouth Jacinto climbed quickly by footholds well known to him. -Having mounted, he lay down on the lower lip, and helped the Bishop to -clamber up. He told Father Latour to wait for him on this projection -while he brought up the baggage. - -A few moments later the Bishop slid after Jacinto and the blankets, -through the orifice, into the throat of the cave. Within stood a wooden -ladder, like that used in kivas, and down this he easily made his way to -the floor. - -He found himself in a lofty cavern, shaped somewhat like a Gothic -chapel, of vague outline,--the only light within was that which came -through the narrow aperture between the stone lips. Great as was his -need of shelter, the Bishop, on his way down the ladder, was struck by a -reluctance, an extreme distaste for the place. The air in the cave was -glacial, penetrated to the very bones, and he detected at once a fetid -odour, not very strong but highly disagreeable. Some twenty feet or so -above his head the open mouth let in grey daylight like a high transom. - -While he stood gazing about, trying to reckon the size of the cave, his -guide was intensely preoccupied in making a careful examination of the -floor and walls. At the foot of the ladder lay a heap of half-burned -logs. There had been a fire there, and it had been extinguished with -fresh earth,--a pile of dust covered what had been the heart of the -fire. Against the cavern wall was a heap of piñon faggots, neatly -piled. After he had made a minute examination of the floor, the guide -began cautiously to move this pile of wood, taking the sticks up one by -one, and putting them in another spot. The Bishop supposed he would make -a fire at once, but he seemed in no haste to do so. Indeed, when he had -moved the wood he sat down upon the floor and fell into reflection. -Father Latour urged him to build a fire without further delay. - -"Padre," said the Indian boy, "I do not know if it was right to bring -you here. This place is used by my people for ceremonies and is known -only to us. When you go out from here, you must forget." - -"I will forget, certainly. But unless we can have a fire, we had better -go back into the storm. I feel ill here already." - -Jacinto unrolled the blankets and threw the dryest one about the -shivering priest. Then he bent over the pile of ashes and charred wood, -but what he did was to select a number of small stones that had been -used to fence in the burning embers. These he gathered in his _serape_ and -carried to the rear wall of the cavern, where, a little above his head, -there seemed to be a hole. It was about as large as a very big -watermelon, of an irregular oval shape. - -Holes of that shape are common in the black volcanic cliffs of the -Pajarito Plateau, where they occur in great numbers. This one was -solitary, dark, and seemed to lead into another cavern. Though it lay -higher than Jacinto's head, it was not beyond easy reach of his arms, -and to the Bishop's astonishment he began deftly and noiselessly to -place the stones he had collected within the mouth of this orifice, -fitting them together until he had entirely closed it. He then cut -wedges from the piñon faggots and inserted them into the cracks between -the stones. Finally, he took a handful of the earth that had been used -to smother the dead fire, and mixed it with the wet snow that had blown -in between the stone lips. With this thick mud he plastered over his -masonry, and smoothed it with his palm. The whole operation did not take -a quarter of an hour. - -Without comment or explanation he then proceeded to build a fire. The -odour so disagreeable to the Bishop soon vanished before the fragrance -of the burning logs. The heat seemed to purify the rank air at the same -time that it took away the deathly chill, but the dizzy noise in Father -Latour's head persisted. At first he thought it was a vertigo, a roaring -in his ears brought on by cold and changes in his circulation. But as he -grew warm and relaxed, he perceived an extraordinary vibration in this -cavern; it hummed like a hive of bees, like a heavy roll of distant -drums. After a time he asked Jacinto whether he, too, noticed this. The -slim Indian boy smiled for the first time since they had entered the -cave. He took up a faggot for a torch, and beckoned the Padre to follow -him along a tunnel which ran back into the mountain, where the roof grew -much lower, almost within reach of the hand. There Jacinto knelt down -over a fissure in the stone floor, like a crack in china, which was -plastered up with clay. Digging some of this out with his hunting knife, -he put his ear on the opening, listened a few seconds, and motioned the -Bishop to do likewise. - -Father Latour lay with his ear to this crack for a long while, despite -the cold that arose from it. He told himself he was listening to one of -the oldest voices of the earth. What he heard was the sound of a great -underground river, flowing through a resounding cavern. The water was -far, far below, perhaps as deep as the foot of the mountain, a flood -moving in utter blackness under ribs of antediluvian rock. It was not a -rushing noise, but the sound of a great flood moving with majesty and -power. - -"It is terrible," he said at last, as he rose. - -"_Si, Padre_." Jacinto began spitting on the clay he had gouged out of -the seam, and plastered it up again. - -When they returned to the fire, the patch of daylight up between the two -lips had grown much paler. The Bishop saw it die with regret. He took -from his saddle-bags his coffee-pot and a loaf of bread and a goat -cheese. Jacinto climbed up to the lower ledge of the entrance, shook a -pine tree, and filled the coffee-pot and one of the blankets with fresh -snow. While his guide was thus engaged, the Bishop took a swallow of old -Taos whisky from his pocket flask. He never liked to drink spirits in -the presence of an Indian. - -Jacinto declared that he thought himself lucky to get bread and black -coffee. As he handed the Bishop back his tin cup after drinking its -contents, he rubbed his hand over his wide sash with a smile of pleasure -that showed all his white teeth. - -"We had good luck to be near here," he said. "When we leave the mules, I -think I can find my way here, but I am not sure. I have not been here -very many times. You was scare, Padre?" - -The Bishop reflected. "You hardly gave me time to be scared, boy. Were -you?" - -The Indian shrugged his shoulders. "I think not to return to pueblo," he -admitted. - -Father Latour read his breviary long by the light of the fire. Since -early morning his mind had been on other than spiritual things. At last -he felt that he could sleep. He made Jacinto repeat a _Pater Noster_ -with him, as he always did on their night camps, rolled himself in his -blankets, and stretched out, feet to the fire. He had it in his mind, -however, to waken in the night and study a little the curious hole his -guide had so carefully closed. After he put on the mud, Jacinto had -never looked in the direction of that hole again, and Father Latour, -observing Indian good manners, had tried not to glance toward it. - -He did waken, and the fire was still giving off a rich glow of light in -that lofty Gothic chamber. But there against the wall was his guide, -standing on some invisible foothold, his arms outstretched against the -rock, his body flattened against it, his ear over that patch of fresh -mud, listening; listening with supersensual ear, it seemed, and he -looked to be supported against the rock by the intensity of his -solicitude. The Bishop closed his eyes without making a sound and -wondered why he had supposed he could catch his guide asleep. - -The next morning they crawled out through the stone lips, and dropped -into a gleaming white world. The snow-clad mountains were red in the -rising sun. The Bishop stood looking down over ridge after ridge of -wintry fir trees with the tender morning breaking over them, all their -branches laden with soft, rose-coloured clouds of virgin snow. - -Jacinto said it would not be worth while to look for the mules. When the -snow melted, he would recover the saddles and bridles. They floundered -on foot some eight miles to a squatter's cabin, rented horses, and -completed their journey by starlight. When they reached Father Vaillant, -he was sitting up in a bed of buffalo skins, his fever broken, already -on the way to recovery. Another good friend had reached him before the -Bishop. Kit Carson, on a deer hunt in the mountains with two Taos -Indians, had heard that this village was stricken and that the Vicario -was there. He hurried to the rescue, and got into the pueblo with a pack -of venison meat just before the storm broke. As soon as Father Vaillant -could sit in the saddle, Carson and the Bishop took him back to Santa -Fé, breaking the journey into four days because of his enfeebled state. - - -The Bishop kept his word, and never spoke of Jacinto's cave to anyone, -but he did not cease from wondering about it. It flashed into his mind -from time to time, and always with a shudder of repugnance quite -unjustified by anything he had experienced there. It had been a -hospitable shelter to him in his extremity. Yet afterward he remembered -the storm itself, even his exhaustion, with a tingling sense of -pleasure. But the cave, which had probably saved his life, he remembered -with horror. No tales of wonder, he told himself, would ever tempt him -into a cavern hereafter. - -At home again, in his own house, he still felt a certain curiosity about -this ceremonial cave, and Jacinto's puzzling behaviour. It seemed almost -to lend a colour of probability to some of those unpleasant stories -about the Pecos religion. He was already convinced that neither the -white men nor the Mexicans in Santa Fé understood anything about Indian -beliefs or the workings of the Indian mind. - -Kit Carson had told him that the proprietor of the trading post between -Glorieta Pass and the Pecos pueblo had grown up a neighbour to these -Indians, and knew as much about them as anybody. His parents had kept -the trading post before him, and his mother was the first white woman in -that neighborhood. The trader's name was Zeb Orchard; he lived alone in -the mountains, selling salt and sugar and whisky and tobacco to red men -and white. Carson said that he was honest and truthful, a good friend to -the Indians, and had at one time wanted to marry a Pecos girl, but his -old mother, who was very proud of being "white," would not hear to it, -and so he had remained a single man and a recluse. - -Father Latour made a point of stopping for the night with this trader on -one of his missionary journeys, in order to question him about the Pecos -customs and ceremonies. - -Orchard said that the legend about the undying fire was unquestionably -true; but it was kept burning, not in the mountain, but in their own -pueblo. It was a smothered fire in a clay oven, and had been burning in -one of the kivas ever since the pueblo was founded, centuries ago. About -the snake stories, he was not certain. He had seen rattlesnakes around -the pueblo, to be sure, but there were rattlers everywhere. A Pecos boy -had been bitten on the ankle some years ago, and had come to him-for -whisky; he swelled up and was very sick, like any other boy. - -The Bishop asked Orchard if he thought it probable that the Indians kept -a great serpent in concealment somewhere, as was commonly reported. - -"They do keep some sort of varmint out in the mountain, that they bring -in for their religious ceremonies," the trader said. "But I don't know -if it's a snake or not. No white man knows anything about Indian -religion, Padre." - -As they talked further, Orchard admitted that when he was a boy he had -been very curious about these snake stories himself, and once, at their -festival time, he had spied on the Pecos men, though that was not a very -safe thing to do. He had lain in ambush for two nights on the mountain, -and he saw a party of Indians bringing in a chest by torchlight. It was -about the size of a woman's trunk, and it was heavy enough to bend the -young aspen poles on which it was hung. "If I'd seen white men bringing -in a chest after dark," he observed, "I could have made a guess at what -was in it; money, or whisky, or fire-arms. But seeing it was Indians, I -can't say. It might have been only queer-shaped rocks their ancestors -had taken a notion to. The things they value most are worth nothing to -us. They've got their own superstitions, and their minds will go round -and round in the same old ruts till Judgment Day." - -Father Latour remarked that their veneration for old customs was a -quality he liked in the Indians, and that it played a great part in his -own religion. - -The trader told him he might make good Catholics among the Indians, but -he would never separate them from their own beliefs. "Their priests have -their own kind of mysteries. I don't know how much of it is real and how -much is made up. I remember something that happened when I was a little -fellow. One night a Pecos girl, with her baby in her arms, ran into the -kitchen here and begged my mother to hide her until after the festival, -for she'd seen signs between the _caciques_, and was sure they were -going to feed--her baby to the snake. Whether it was true or not, she -certainly believed it, poor thing, and Mother let her stay. It made a -great impression on me at the time." - - - - -BOOK FIVE - -_PADRE MARTINEZ_ - - - - -1 - -THE OLD ORDER - - -BISHOP LATOUR, with Jacinto, was riding through the mountains on his -first official visit to Taos--after Albuquerque, the largest and richest -parish in his diocese. Both the priest and people there were hostile to -Americans and jealous of interference. Any European, except a Spaniard, -was regarded as a gringo. The Bishop had let the parish alone, giving -their animosity plenty of time to cool. With Carson's help he had -informed himself fully about conditions there, and about the powerful -old priest, Antonio José Martinez, who was ruler in temporal as well as -in spiritual affairs. Indeed, before Father Latour's entrance upon the -scene, Martinez had been dictator to all the parishes in northern New -Mexico, and the native priests at Santa Fé were all of them under his -thumb. - -It was common talk that Padre Martinez had instigated the revolt of the -Taos Indians five years ago, when Bent, the American Governor, and a -dozen other white men were murdered and scalped. Seven of the Taos -Indians had been tried before a military court and hanged for the -murder, but no attempt had been made to call the plotting priest to -account. Indeed, Padre Martinez had managed to profit considerably by -the affair. - -The Indians who were sentenced to death had sent for their Padre and -begged him to get them out of the trouble he had got them into. Martinez -promised to save their lives if they would deed him their lands, near -the pueblo. This they did, and after the conveyance was properly -executed the Padre troubled himself no more about the matter, but went -to pay a visit at his native town of Abiquiu. In his absence the seven -Indians were hanged on the appointed day. Martinez now cultivated their -fertile farms, which made him quite the richest man in the parish. - -Father Latour had had polite correspondence with Martinez, but had met -him only once, on that memorable occasion when the Padre had ridden up -from Taos to strengthen the Santa Fé clergy in their refusal to -recognize the new Bishop. But he could see him as if that were only -yesterday,--the priest of Taos was not a man one would easily forget. -One could not have passed him on the street without feeling his great -physical force and his imperious will. Not much taller than the Bishop -in reality, he gave the impression of being an enormous man. His broad -high shoulders were like a bull buffalo's, his big head was set -defiantly on a thick neck, and the full-cheeked, richly coloured, -egg-shaped Spanish face--how vividly the Bishop remembered that face! It -was so unusual that he would be glad to see it again; a high, narrow -forehead, brilliant yellow eyes set deep in strong arches, and full, -florid cheeks,--not blank areas of smooth flesh, as in Anglo-Saxon -faces, but full of muscular activity, as quick to change with feeling as -any of his features. His mouth was the very assertion of violent, -uncurbed passions and tyrannical self-will; the full lips thrust out and -taut, like the flesh of animals distended by fear or desire. - -Father Latour judged that the day of lawless personal power was almost -over, even on the frontier, and this figure was to him already like -something picturesque and impressive, but really impotent, left over -from the past. - -The Bishop and Jacinto left the mountains behind them, the trail dropped -to a plain covered by clumps of very old sage-brush, with trunks as -thick as a man's leg. Jacinto pointed out a cloud of dust moving rapidly -toward them,--a cavalcade of a hundred men or more, Indians and -Mexicans, come out to welcome their Bishop with shouting and musketry. - -As the horsemen approached, Padre Martinez himself was easily -distinguishable--in buckskin breeches, high boots and silver spurs, a -wide Mexican hat on his head, and a great black cape wound about his -shoulders like a shepherd's plaid. He rode up to the Bishop and reining -in his black gelding, uncovered his head in a broad salutation, while -his escort surrounded the churchmen and fired their muskets into the -air. - -The two priests rode side by side into Los Ranchos de Taos, a little -town of yellow walls and winding streets and green orchards. The -inhabitants were all gathered in the square before the church. When the -Bishop dismounted to enter the church, the women threw their shawls on -the dusty pathway for him to walk upon, and as he passed through the -kneeling congregation, men and women snatched for his hand to kiss the -Episcopal ring. In his own country all this would have been highly -distasteful to Jean Marie Latour. Here, these demonstrations seemed a -part of the high colour that was in landscape and gardens, in the -flaming cactus and the gaudily decorated altars,--in the agonized -Christs and dolorous Virgins and the very human figures of the saints. -He had already learned that with this people religion was necessarily -theatrical. - -From Los Ranchos the party rode quickly across the grey plain into Taos -itself, to the priest's house, opposite the church, where a great throng -had collected. As the people sank on their knees, one boy, a gawky lad -of ten or twelve, remained standing, his mouth open and his hat on his -head. Padre Martinez reached over the heads of several kneeling women, -snatched off the boy's cap, and cuffed him soundly about the ears. When -Father Latour murmured in protest, the native priest said boldly: - -"He is my own son, Bishop, and it is time I taught him manners." - -So this was to be the tune, the Bishop reflected. His well-schooled -countenance did not change a shadow as he received this challenge, and -he passed on into the Padre's house. They went at once into Martinez's -study, where they found a young man lying on the floor, fast asleep. He -was a very large young man, very stout, lying on his back with his head -pillowed on a book, and as he breathed his bulk rose and fell amazingly. -He wore a Franciscan's brown gown, and his hair was clipped short. At -sight of the sleeper, Padre Martinez broke into a laugh and gave him a -no very gentle kick in the ribs. The fellow got to his feet in great -confusion, escaping through a door into the _patio_. - -"You there," the Padre called after him, "only young men who work hard -at night want to sleep in the day! You must have been studying by -candlelight. I'll give you an examination in theology!" This was greeted -by a titter of feminine laughter from the windows across the court, -where the fugitive took refuge behind a washing hung out to dry. He bent -his tall, full figure and disappeared between a pair of wet sheets. - -"That was my student, Trinidad," said Martinez, "a nephew of my old -friend Father Lucero, at Arroyo Hondo. He's a monk, but we want him to -take orders. We sent him to the Seminary in Durango, but he was either -too homesick or too stupid to learn anything, so I'm teaching him here. -We shall make a priest of him one day." - -Father Latour was told to consider the house his own, but he had no wish -to. The disorder was almost more than his fastidious taste could bear. -The Padre's study table was sprinkled with snuff, and piled so high with -books that they almost hid the crucifix hanging behind it. Books were -heaped on chairs and tables all over the house,--and the books and the -floors were deep in the dust of spring sand-storms. Father Martinez's -boots and hats lay about in corners, his coats and cassocks were hung on -pegs and draped over pieces of furniture. Yet the place seemed overrun -by serving-women, young and old,--and by large yellow cats with full -soft fur, of a special breed, apparently. They slept in the -window-sills, lay on the well-curb in the _patio_; the boldest came, -directly, to the supper-table, where their master fed them carelessly -from his plate. - -When they sat down to supper, the host introduced to the Bishop the -tall, stout young man with the protruding front, who had been asleep on -the floor. He said again that Trinidad Lucero was studying with him, and -was supposed to be his secretary,--adding that he spent most of his time -hanging about the kitchen and hindering the girls at their work. - -These remarks were made in the young man's presence, but did not -embarrass him at all. His whole attention was fixed upon the mutton -stew, which he began to devour with undue haste as soon as his plate was -put before him. The Bishop observed later that Trinidad was treated very -much like a poor relation or a servant. He was sent on errands, was told -without ceremony to fetch the Padre's boots, to bring wood for the fire, -to saddle his horse. Father Latour disliked his personality so much that -he could scarcely look at him. His fat face was irritatingly stupid, and -had the grey, oily look of soft cheeses. The corners of his mouth were -deep folds in plumpness, like the creases in a baby's legs, and the -steel rim of his spectacles, where it crossed his nose, was embedded in -soft flesh. He said not one word during supper, but ate as if he were -afraid of never seeing food again. When his attention left his plate for -a moment, it was fixed in the same greedy way upon the girl who served -the table--and who seemed to regard him with careless contempt. The -student gave the impression of being always stupefied by one form of -sensual disturbance or another. - -Padre Martinez, with a napkin tied round his neck to protect his -cassock, ate and drank generously. The Bishop found the food poor -enough, despite the many cooks, though the wine, which came from El Paso -del Norte, was very fair. - -During supper, his host asked the Bishop flatly if he considered -celibacy an essential condition of the priest's vocation. - -Father Latour replied merely that this question had been thrashed out -many centuries ago and decided once for all. - -"Nothing is decided once for all," Martinez declared fiercely. "Celibacy -may be all very well for the French clergy, but not for ours. St. -Augustine himself says it is better not to go against nature. I find -every evidence that in his old age he regretted having practised -continence." - -The Bishop said he would be interested to see the passages from which he -drew such conclusions, observing that he knew the writings of St. -Augustine fairly well. - -"I have the telling passages all written down somewhere. I will find -them before you go. You have probably read them with a sealed mind. -Celibate priests lose their perceptions. No priest can experience -repentance and forgiveness of sin unless he himself falls into sin. -Since concupiscence is the most common form of temptation, it is better -for him to know something about it. The soul cannot be humbled by fasts -and prayer; it must be broken by mortal sin to experience forgiveness of -sin and rise to a state of grace. Otherwise, religion is nothing but -dead logic." - -"This is a subject upon which we must confer later, and at some length," -said the Bishop quietly. "I shall reform these practices throughout my -diocese as rapidly as possible. I hope it will be but a short time until -there is not a priest left who does not keep all the vows he took when -he bound himself to the service of the altar." - -The swarthy Padre laughed, and threw off the big cat which had mounted -to his shoulder. "It will keep you busy, Bishop. Nature has got the -start of you here. But for all that, our native priests are more devout -than your French Jesuits. We have a living Church here, not a dead arm -of the European Church. Our religion grew out of the soil, and has its -own roots. We pay a filial respect to the person of the Holy Father, but -Rome has no authority here. We do not require aid from the Propaganda, -and we resent its interference. The Church the Franciscan Fathers -planted here was cut off; this is the second growth, and is indigenous. -Our people are the most devout left in the world. If you blast their -faith by European formalities, they will become infidels and -profligates." - -To this eloquence the Bishop returned blandly that he had not come to -deprive the people of their religion, but that he would be compelled to -deprive some of the priests of their parishes if they did not change -their way of life. - -Father Martinez filled his glass and replied with perfect good humour. -"You cannot deprive me of mine, Bishop. Try it! I will organize my own -church. You can have your French priest of Taos, and I will have the -people!" - -With this the Padre left the table and stood warming his back at the -fire, his cassock pulled up about his waist to expose his trousers to -the blaze. "You are a young man, my Bishop," he went on, rolling his big -head back and looking up at the well-smoked roof poles. "And you know -nothing about Indians or Mexicans. If you try to introduce European -civilization here and change our old ways, to interfere with the secret -dances of the Indians, let us say, or abolish the bloody rites of the -Penitentes, I foretell an early death for you. I advise you to study our -native traditions before you begin your reforms. You are among barbarous -people, my Frenchman, between two savage races. The dark things -forbidden by your Church are a part of Indian religion. You cannot -introduce French fashions here." - -At this moment the student, Trinidad, got up quietly, and after an -obsequious bow to the Bishop, went with soft, escaping tread toward the -kitchen. When his brown skirt had disappeared through the door, Father -Latour turned sharply to his host. - -"Martinez, I consider it very unseemly to talk in this loose fashion -before young men, especially a young man who is studying for the -priesthood. Furthermore, I cannot see why a young man of this calibre -should be encouraged to take orders. He will never hold a parish in my -diocese." - -Padre Martinez laughed and showed his long, yellow teeth. Laughing did -not become him; his teeth were too large--distinctly vulgar. "Oh, -Trinidad will go to Arroyo Hondo as curate to his uncle, who is growing -old. He's a very devout fellow, Trinidad. You ought to see him in -Passion Week. He goes up to Abiquiu and becomes another man; carries the -heaviest crosses to the highest mountains, and takes more scourging than -anyone. He comes back here with his back so full of cactus spines that -the girls have to pick him like a chicken." - -Father Latour was tired, and went to his room soon after supper. The -bed, upon examination, seemed clean and comfortable, but he felt -uncertain of its surroundings. He did not like the air of this house. -After he retired, the clatter of dish-washing and the giggling of women -across the _patio_ kept him awake a long while; and when that ceased, -Father Martinez began snoring in some chamber near by. He must have left -his door open into the _patio_, for the adobe partitions were thick -enough to smother sound otherwise. The Padre snored like an enraged -bull, until the Bishop decided to go forth and find his door and close -it. He arose, lit his candle, and opened his own door in half-hearted -resolution. As the night wind blew into the room, a little dark shadow -fluttered from the wall across the floor; a mouse, perhaps. But no, it -was a bunch of woman's hair that had been indolently tossed into a -corner when some slovenly female toilet was made in this room. This -discovery annoyed the Bishop exceedingly. - - -High Mass was at eleven the next morning, the parish priest officiating -and the Bishop in the Episcopal chair. He was well pleased with the -church of Taos. The building was clean and in good repair, the -congregation large and devout. The delicate lace, snowy linen, and -burnished brass on the altar told of a devoted Altar Guild. The boys who -served at the altar wore rich smocks of hand-made lace over their -scarlet surplices. The Bishop had never heard the Mass more impressively -sung than by Father Martinez. The man had a beautiful baritone voice, -and he drew from some deep well of emotional power. Nothing in the -service was slighted, every phrase and gesture had its full value. At -the moment of the Elevation the dark priest seemed to give his whole -force, his swarthy body and all its blood, to that lifting-up. Rightly -guided, the Bishop reflected, this Mexican might have been a great man. -He had an altogether compelling personality, a disturbing, mysterious -magnetic power. - -After the confirmation service, Father Martinez had horses brought round -and took the Bishop out to see his farms and live-stock. He took him all -over his ranches down in the rich bottom lands between Taos and the -Indian pueblo which, as Father Latour knew, had come into his possession -from the seven Indians who were hanged. Martinez referred carelessly to -the Bent massacre as they rode along. He boasted that there had never -been trouble afoot in New Mexico that wasn't started in Taos. - -They stopped just west of the pueblo a little before sunset,--a pueblo -very different from all the others the Bishop had visited; two large -communal houses, shaped like pyramids, gold-coloured in the afternoon -light, with the purple mountain lying just behind them. Gold-coloured -men in white burnouses came out on the stairlike flights of roofs, and -stood still as statues, apparently watching the changing light on the -mountain. There was a religious silence over the place; no sound at all -but the bleating of goats coming home through clouds of golden dust. - -These two houses, the Padre told him, had been continuously occupied by -this tribe for more than a thousand years. Coronado's men found them -there, and described them as a superior kind of Indian, handsome and -dignified in bearing, dressed in deerskin coats and trousers like those -of Europeans. - -Though the mountain was timbered, its lines were so sharp that it had -the sculptured look of naked mountains like the Sandias. The general -growth on its sides was evergreen, but the canyons and ravines were -wooded with aspens, so that the shape of every depression was painted on -the mountain-side, light green against the dark, like symbols; -serpentine, crescent, half-circles. This mountain and its ravines had -been the seat of old religious ceremonies, honey-combed with noiseless -Indian life, the repository of Indian secrets, for many centuries, the -Padre remarked. - -"And some place in there, you may be sure, they keep Popé's estufa, but -no white man will ever see it. I mean the estufa where Popé sealed -himself up for four years and never saw the light of day, when he was -planning the revolt of 1680. I suppose you know all about that outbreak, -Bishop Latour?" - -"Something, of course, from the Martyrology. But I did not know that it -originated in Taos." - -"Haven't I just told you that all the trouble there ever was in New -Mexico originated in Taos?" boasted the Padre. "Popé was born a San -Juan Indian, but so was Napoleon a Corsican. He operated from Taos." - -Padre Martinez knew his country, a country which had no written -histories. He gave the Bishop much the best account he had heard of the -great Indian revolt of 1680, which added such a long chapter to the -Martyrology of the New World, when all the Spaniards were killed or -driven out, and there was not one European left alive north of El Paso -del Norte. - -That night after supper, as his host sat taking snuff, Father Latour -questioned him closely and learned something about the story of his -life. - -Martinez was born directly under that solitary blue mountain on the -sky-line west of Taos, shaped like a pyramid with the apex sliced off, -in Abiquiu. It was one of the oldest Mexican settlements in the -territory, surrounded by canyons so deep and ranges so rugged that it -was practically cut off from intercourse with the outside world. Being -so solitary, its people were sombre in temperament, fierce and fanatical -in religion, celebrated the Passion Week by cross-bearings and bloody -scourgings. - -Antonio José Martinez grew up there, without learning to read or write, -married at twenty, and lost his wife and child when he was twenty-three. -After his marriage he had learned to read from the parish priest, and -when he became a widower he decided to study for the priesthood. Taking -his clothes and the little money he got from the sale of his household -goods, he started on horseback for Durango, in Old Mexico. There he -entered the Seminary and began a life of laborious study. - -The Bishop could imagine what it meant for a young man who had not -learned to read until long after adolescence, to undergo a severe -academic training. He found Martinez deeply versed, not only in the -Church Fathers, but in the Latin and Spanish classics. After six years -at the Seminary, Martinez had returned to his native Abiquiu as priest -of the parish church there. He was passionately attached to that old -village under the pyramidal mountain. All the while he had been in Taos, -half a lifetime now, he made periodic pilgrimages on horseback back to -Abiquiu, as if the flavour of his own yellow earth were medicine to his -soul. Naturally he hated the Americans. The American occupation meant -the end of men like himself. He was a man of the old order, a son of -Abiquiu, and his day was over. - - -On his departure from Taos, the Bishop went out of his way to make a -call at Kit Carson's ranch house. Carson, he knew, was away buying -sheep, but Father Latour wished to see the Señora Carson to thank her -again for her kindness to poor Magdalena, and to tell her of the woman's -happy and devoted life with the Sisters in their school at Santa Fé. - -The Señora received him with that quiet but unabashed hospitality which -is a common grace in Mexican households. She was a tall woman, slender, -with drooping shoulders and lustrous black eyes and hair. Though she -could not read, both her face and conversation were intelligent. To the -Bishop's thinking, she was handsome; her countenance showed that -discipline of life which he admired. She had a cheerful disposition, -too, and a pleasant sense of humour. It was possible to talk -confidentially to her. She said she hoped he had been comfortable in -Padre Martinez's house, with an inflection which told that she much -doubted it, and she laughed a little when he confessed that he had been -annoyed by the presence of Trinidad Lucero. - -"Some people say he is Father Lucero's son," she said with a shrug. "But -I do not think so. More likely one of Padre Martinez's. Did you hear -what happened to him at Abiquiu last year, in Passion Week? He tried to -be like the Saviour, and had himself crucified. Oh, not with nails! He -was tied upon a cross with ropes, to hang there all night; they do that -sometimes at Abiquiu, it is a very old-fashioned place. But he is so -heavy that after he had hung there a few hours, the cross fell over with -him, and he was very much humiliated. Then he had himself tied to a post -and said he would bear as many stripes as our Saviour--six thousand, as -was revealed to St. Bridget. But before they had given him a hundred, he -fainted. They scourged him with cactus whips, and his back was so -poisoned that he was sick up there for a long while. This year they sent -word that they did not want him at Abiquiu, so he had to keep Holy Week -here, and everybody laughed at him." - -Father Latour asked the Señora to tell him frankly whether she thought -he could put a stop to the extravagances of the Penitential Brotherhood. -She smiled and shook her head. "I often say to my husband, I hope you -will not try to do that. It would only set the people against you. The -old people have need of their old customs; and the young ones will go -with the times." - -As the Bishop was taking his leave, she put into his saddle-bags a -beautiful piece of lace-work for Magdalena. "She will not be likely to -use it for herself, but she will be glad to have it to give to the -Sisters. That brutal man left her nothing. After he was hung, there was -nothing to sell but his gun and one burro. That was why he was going to -take the risk of killing two Padres for their mules--and for spite -against religion, maybe! Magdalena said he had often threatened to kill -the priest at Mora." - - -At Santa Fé the Bishop found Father Vaillant awaiting him. They had not -seen each other since Easter, and there were many things to be -discussed. The vigour and zeal of Bishop Latour's administration had -already been recognized at Rome, and he had lately received a letter -from Cardinal Fransoni, Prefect of the Propaganda, announcing that the -vicarate of Santa Fé had been formally raised to a diocese. By the same -long-delayed post came an invitation from the Cardinal, urgently -requesting Father Latour's presence at important conferences at the -Vatican during the following year. Though all these matters must be -taken up in their turn between the Bishop and his Vicar-General, Father -Joseph had undoubtedly come up from Albuquerque at this particular time -because of a lively curiosity to hear how the Bishop had been received -in Taos. - -Seated in the study in their old cassocks, with the candles lighted on -the table between them, they spent a long evening. - -"For the present," Father Latour remarked, "I shall do nothing to change -the curious situation at Taos. It is not expedient to interfere. The -church is strong, the people are devout. No matter what the conduct of -the priest has been, he has built up a strong organization, and his -people are devotedly loyal to him." - -"But can he be disciplined, do you think?" - -"Oh, there is no question of discipline! He has been a little potentate -too long. His people would assuredly support him against a French -Bishop. For the present I shall be blind to what I do not like there." - -"But Jean," Father Joseph broke out in agitation, "the man's life is an -open scandal, one hears of it everywhere. Only a few weeks ago I was -told a pitiful story of a Mexican girl carried off in one of the Indian -raids on the Costella valley. She was a child of eight when she was -carried away, and was fifteen when she was found and ransomed. During -all that time the pious girl had preserved her virginity by a succession -of miracles. She had a medal from the shrine of Our Lady of Guadelupe -tied round her neck, and she said such prayers as she had been taught. -Her chastity was threatened many times, but always some unexpected event -averted the catastrophe. After she was found and sent back to some -relatives living in Arroyo Hondo, she was so devout that she wished to -become a religious. She was debauched by this Martinez, and he married -her to one of his peons. She is now living on one of his farms." - -"Yes, Christobal told me that story," said the Bishop with a shrug. "But -Padre Martinez is getting too old to play the part of Don Juan much -longer. I do not wish to lose the parish of Taos in order to punish its -priest, my friend. I have no priest strong enough to put in his place. -You are the only man who could meet the situation there, and you are at -Albuquerque. A year from now I shall be in Rome, and there I hope to get -a Spanish missionary who will take over the parish of Taos. Only a -Spaniard would be welcomed there, I think." - -"You are doubtless right," said Father Joseph. "I am often too hasty in -my judgments. I may do very badly for you while you are in Europe. For I -suppose I am to leave my dear Albuquerque, and come to Santa Fé while -you are gone?" - -"Assuredly. They will love you all the more for lacking you awhile. I -hope to bring some more hardy Auvergnats back with me, young men from -our own Seminary, and I am afraid I must put one of them in Albuquerque. -You have been there long enough. You have done all that is necessary. I -need you here, Father Joseph. As it is now, one of us must ride seventy -miles whenever we wish to converse about anything." - -Father Vaillant sighed. "Ah, I supposed it would come! You will snatch -me from Albuquerque as you did from Sandusky. When I went there -everybody was my enemy, now everybody is my friend; therefore it is time -to go." Father Vaillant took off his glasses, folded them, and put them -in their case, which act always announced his determination to retire. -"So a year from now you will be in Rome. Well, I had rather be among my -people in Albuquerque, that I can say honestly. But Clermont,--there I -envy you. I should like to see my own mountains again. At least you will -see all my family and bring me word of them, and you can bring me the -vestments that my dear sister Philomène and her nuns have been making -for me these three years. I shall be very glad to have them." He rose, -and took up one of the candles. "And when you leave Clermont, Jean, put -a few chestnuts in your pocket for me!" - - - - -2 - -THE MISER - - -IN February Bishop Latour once more set out on horseback over the Santa -Fé trail, this time with Rome as his objective. He was absent for -nearly a year, and when he returned he brought with him four young -priests from his own Seminary of Montferrand, and a Spanish priest, -Father Taladrid, whom he had found in Rome, and who was at once sent to -Taos. At the Bishop's suggestion, Padre Martinez formally resigned his -parish, with the understanding that he was still to celebrate Mass upon -solemn occasions. Not only did he avail himself of this privilege, but -he continued to perform all marriages and burial services and to dictate -the lives of the parishioners. Very soon he and Father Taladrid were at -open war. - -When the Bishop, unable to compose their differences, supported the new -priest, Father Martinez and his friend Father Lucero, of Arroyo Hondo, -mutinied; flatly refused to submit, and organized a church of their own. -This, they declared, was the old Holy Catholic Church of Mexico, while -the Bishop's church was an American institution. In both towns the -greater part of the population went over to the schismatic church, -though some pious Mexicans, in great perplexity, attended Mass at both. -Father Martinez printed a long and eloquent Proclamation (which very few -of his parishioners could read) giving an historical justification for -his schism, and denying the obligation of celibacy for the priesthood. -As both he and Father Lucero were well on in years, this particular -clause could be of little benefit to anyone in their new organization -except Trinidad. After the two old priests went off into schism, one of -their first solemn acts was to elevate Father Lucero's nephew to the -priesthood, and he acted as curate to them both, swinging back and forth -between Taos and Arroyo Hondo. - -The schismatic church at least accomplished the rejuvenation of the two -rebellious priests at its head, and far and wide revived men's interest -in them,--though they had always furnished their people with plenty to -talk about. Ever since they were young men with adjoining parishes, they -had been friends, cronies, rivals, sometimes bitter enemies. But their -quarrels could never keep them apart for long. - -Old Marino Lucero had not one trait in common with Martinez, except the -love of authority. He had been a miser from his youth, and lived down in -the sunken world of Arroyo Hondo in the barest poverty, though he was -supposed to be very rich. He used to boast that his house was as poor as -a burro's stable. His bed, his crucifix, and his bean-pot were his -furniture. He kept no live-stock but one poor mule, on which he rode -over to Taos to quarrel with his friend Martinez, or to get a solid -dinner when he was hungry. In his _casa_ every day was Friday--unless -one of his neighbour women cooked a chicken and brought it in to him out -of pure compassion. For his people liked him. He was grasping, but not -oppressive, and he wrung more pesos out of Arroyo Seco and Questa than -out of his own arroyo. Thrift is such a rare quality among Mexicans that -they find it very amusing; his people loved to tell how he never bought -anything, but picked up old brooms after housewives had thrown them -away, and that he wore Padre Martinez's garments after the Padre would -have them no longer, though they were so much too big for him. One of -the priests' fiercest quarrels had come about because Martinez gave some -of his old clothes to a monk from Mexico who was studying at his house, -and who had not wherewithal to cover himself as winter came on. - -The two priests had always talked shamelessly about each other. All -Martinez's best stories were about Lucero, and all Lucero's were about -Martinez. - -"You see how it is," Padre Lucero would say to the young men at a -wedding party, "my way is better than old José Martinez's. His nose and -chin are getting to be close neighbours now, and a petticoat is not much -good to him any more. But I can still rise upright at the sight of a -dollar. With a new piece of money in my hand I am happier than ever; and -what can he do with a pretty girl but regret?" - -Avarice, he assured them, was the one passion that grew stronger and -sweeter in old age. He had the lust for money as Martinez had for women, -and they had never been rivals in the pursuit of their pleasures. After -Trinidad was ordained and went to stay with his uncle, Father Lucero -complained that he had formed gross habits living with Martinez, and was -eating him out of house and home. Father Martinez told with delight how -Trinidad sponged upon the parish at Arroyo Hondo, and went about poking -his nose into one bean-pot after another. - -When the Bishop could no longer remain deaf to the rebellion, he sent -Father Vaillant over to Taos to publish the warning for three weeks and -exhort the two priests to renounce their heresy. On the fourth Sunday -Father Joseph, who complained that he was always sent "_à fouetter les -chats_," solemnly read the letter in which the Bishop stripped Father -Martinez of the rights and privileges of the priesthood. On the -afternoon of the same day, he rode over to Arroyo Hondo, eighteen miles -away, and read a similar letter of excommunication against Father -Lucero. - -Father Martinez continued at the head of his schismatic church until, -after a short illness, he died and was buried in schism, by Father -Lucero. Soon after this, Father Lucero himself fell into a decline. But -even after he was ailing he performed a feat which became one of the -legends of the country-side,--killed a robber in a midnight scuffle. - -A wandering teamster who had been discharged from a wagon train for -theft, was picking up a living over in Taos and there heard the stories -about Father Lucero's hidden riches. He came to Arroyo Hondo to rob the -old man. Father Lucero was a light sleeper, and hearing stealthy sounds -in the middle of the night, he reached for the carving-knife he kept -hidden under his mattress and sprang upon the intruder. They began -fighting in the dark, and though the thief was a young man and armed, -the old priest stabbed him to death and then, covered with blood, ran -out to arouse the town. The neighbours found the Padre's chamber like a -slaughter-house, his victim hang dead beside the hole he had dug. They -were amazed at what the old man had been able to do. - -But from the shock of that night Father Lucero never recovered. He -wasted away so rapidly that his people had the horse doctor come from -Taos to look at him. This veterinary was a Yankee who had been -successful in treating men as well as horses, but he said he could do -nothing for Father Lucero; he believed he had an internal tumour or a -cancer. - -Padre Lucero died repentant, and Father Vaillant, who had pronounced his -excommunication, was the one to reconcile him to the Church. The Vicar -was in Taos on business for the Bishop, staying with Kit Carson and the -Señora. They were all sitting at supper one evening during a heavy -rain-storm, when a horseman rode up to the _portale_. Carson went out to -receive him. The visitor he brought in with him was Trinidad Lucero, who -took off his rubber coat and stood in a full-skirted cassock of Arroyo -Hondo make, a crucifix about his neck, seeming to fill the room with his -size and importance. After bowing ceremoniously to the Señora, he -addressed himself to Father Vaillant in his best English, speaking -slowly in his thick felty voice. - -"I am the only nephew of Padre Lucero. My uncle is verra seek and soon -to die. She has vomit the blood." He dropped his eyes. - -"Speak to me in your own language, man!" cried Father Joseph. "I can at -least do more with Spanish than you can with English. Now tell me what -you have to say of your uncle's condition." - -Trinidad gave some account of his uncle's illness, repeating solemnly -the phrase, "She has vomit the blood," which he seemed to find -impressive. The sick man wished to see Father Vaillant, and begged that -he would come to him and give him the Sacrament. - -Carson urged the Vicar to wait until morning, as the road down into "the -Hondo" would be badly washed by rain and dangerous to go over in the -dark. But Father Vaillant said if the road were bad he could go down on -foot. Excusing himself to the Señora Carson, he went to his room to put -on his riding-clothes and get his saddle-bags. Trinidad, upon -invitation, sat down at the empty place and made the most of his -opportunity. The host saddled Father Vaillant's mule, and the Vicar rode -away, with Trinidad for guide. - -Not that he needed a guide to Arroyo Hondo, it was a place especially -dear to him, and he was always glad to find a pretext for going there. -How often he had ridden over there on fine days in summer, or in early -spring, before the green was out, when the whole country was pink and -blue and yellow, like a coloured map. - -One approached over a sage-brush plain that appeared to run level and -unbroken to the base of the distant mountains; then without warning, one -suddenly found oneself upon the brink of a precipice, of a chasm in the -earth over two hundred feet deep, the sides sheer cliffs, but cliffs of -earth, not rock. Drawing rein at the edge, one looked down into a sunken -world of green fields and gardens, with a pink adobe town, at the bottom -of this great ditch. The men and mules walking about down there, or -plowing the fields, looked like the figures of a child's Noah's ark. -Down the middle of the arroyo, through the sunken fields and pastures, -flowed a rushing stream which came from the high mountains. Its original -source was so high, indeed, that by merely laying an open wooden trough -up the opposite side of the arroyo, the Mexicans conveyed the water to -the plateau at the top. This sluice was laid in sections that zigzagged -up the face of the cliff. Father Vaillant always stopped to watch the -water rushing up the side of the precipice like a thing alive; an -ever-ascending ladder of clear water, gurgling and clouding into silver -as it climbed. Only once before, he used to tell the natives, in Italy, -had he seen water run up hill like that. - -The water thus diverted was but a tiny thread of the full creek; the -main stream ran down the arroyo over a white rock bottom, with green -willows and deep hay grass and brilliant wild flowers on its banks. -Evening primroses, the fireweed, and butterfly weed grew to a tropical -size and brilliance there among the sedges. - -But this was the first time Father Vaillant had ever gone down into the -Hondo after dark, and at the edge of the cliff he decided not to put -Contento to so cruel a test. "He can do it," he said to Trinidad, "but I -will not make him." He dismounted and went on foot down the steep -winding trail. - -They reached Father Lucero's house before midnight. Half the population -of the town seemed to be in attendance, and the place was lit up as if -for a festival. The sick man's chamber was full of Mexican women, -sitting about on the floor, wrapped in their black shawls, saying their -prayers with lighted candles before them. One could scarcely step for -the candles. - -Father Vaillant beckoned to a woman he knew well, Conçeption Gonzales, -and asked her what was the meaning of this. She whispered that the dying -Padre would have it so. His sight was growing dim, and he kept calling -for more lights. All his life, Conçeption sighed, he had been so saving -of candles, and had mostly done with a pine splinter in the evenings. - -In the corner, on the bed, Father Lucero was groaning and tossing, one -man rubbing his feet, and another wringing cloths out of hot water and -putting them on his stomach to dull the pain. Señora Gonzales whispered -that the sick man had been gnawing the sheets for pain; she had brought -over her best ones, and they were chewed to lacework across the top. - -Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, "Get away from the bed a -little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles -blind me." - -But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor, -the sick man called, "No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief -will come, and I will have nothing left." - -The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat -down again. - -Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked -nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They -burned up at Father Joseph,--great, black, glittering, distrustful eyes. -On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than -Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph's hand with a grip surprisingly -strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the -chest. - -"Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that -the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to -hear." Father Lucero's voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his -parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. "Señor Vicario, -you remember Padre Martinez? You ought to, for you served him as badly -as you did me. Now listen:" - -Father Lucero related that Martinez, before his death, had entrusted to -him a certain sum of money to be spent in masses for the repose of his -soul, these to be offered at his native church in Abiquiu. Lucero had -not used the money as he promised, but had buried it under the dirt -floor of this room, just below the large crucifix that hung on the wall -yonder. - -At this point Father Vaillant again signalled to the women to withdraw, -but as they took up their candles, Father Lucero sat up in his -night-shirt and cried, "Stay as you are! Are you going to run away and -leave me with a stranger? I trust him no more than I do you! Oh, why did -God not make some way for a man to protect his own after death? Alive, I -can do it with my knife, old as I am. But after?"---- - -The Señora Gonzales soothed Father Lucero, persuaded him to lie back -upon his pillows and tell them what he wanted them to do. He explained -that this money which he had taken in trust from Martinez was to be sent -to Abiquiu and used as the Padre had wished. Under the crucifix, and -under the floor beneath the bed on which he was lying, they would find -his own savings. One third of his hoard was for Trinidad. The rest was -to be spent in masses for his soul, and they were to be celebrated in -the old church of San Miguel in Santa Fé. - -Father Vaillant assured him that all his wishes should be scrupulously -carried out, and now it was time for him to dismiss the cares of this -world and prepare his mind to receive the Sacrament. - -"All in good time. But a man does not let go of this world so easily. -Where is Conçeption Gonzales? Come here, my daughter. See to it that -the money is taken up from under the floor while I am still in this -chamber, before my body is cold, that it is counted in the presence of -all these women, and the sum set down in writing." At this point, the -old man started, as with a new hope. "And Christobal, he is the man! -Christobal Carson must be here to count it and set it down. He is a just -man. Trinidad, you fool, why did you not bring Christobal?" - -Father Vaillant was scandalized. "Unless you compose yourself, Father -Lucero, and fix your thoughts upon Heaven, I shall refuse to administer -the Sacrament. In your present state of mind, it would be a sacrilege." - -The old man folded his hands and closed his eyes in assent. Father -Vaillant went into the adjoining room to put on his cassock and stole, -and in his absence Conçeption Gonzales covered a small table by the bed -with one of her own white napkins and placed upon it two wax candles, -and a cup of water for the ministrant's hands. Father Vaillant came back -in his vestments, with his pyx and basin of holy water, and began -sprinkling the bed and the watchers, repeating the antiphon, _Asperges -me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor_. The women stole away, leaving their -lights upon the floor. Father Lucero made his confession, renouncing his -heresy and expressing contrition, after which he received the Sacrament. - -The ceremony calmed the tormented man, and he lay quiet with his hands -folded on his breast. The women returned and sat murmuring prayers as -before. The rain drove against the window panes, the wind made a hollow -sound as it sucked down through the deep arroyo. Some of the watchers -were drooping from weariness, but not one showed any wish to go home. -Watching beside a death-bed was not a hardship for them, but a -privilege,--in the case of a dying priest it was a distinction. - -In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social -importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs -ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul -made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness -through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there -was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he -alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and -on his features would fall some light or shadow from beyond. The "Last -Words" of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in -gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man and woman were -listened for and treasured by their neighbours and kinsfolk. These -sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and -pondered by those who must one day go the same road. - -The stillness of the death chamber was suddenly broken when Trinidad -Lucero knelt down before the crucifix on the wall to pray. His uncle, -though all thought him asleep, began to struggle and cry out, "A thief! -Help, help!" Trinidad retired quickly, but after that the old man lay -with one eye open, and no one dared go near the crucifix. - -About an hour before day-break the Padre's breathing became so painful -that two of the men got behind him and lifted his pillows. The women -whispered that his face was changing, and they brought their candles -nearer, kneeling close beside his bed. His eyes were alive and had -perception in them. He rolled his head to one side and lay looking -intently down into the candlelight, without blinking, while his -features sharpened. Several times his lips twitched back over his teeth. -The watchers held their breath, feeling sure that he would speak before -he passed,--and he did. After a facial spasm that was like a sardonic -smile, and a clicking of breath in his mouth, their Padre spoke like a -horse for the last time: - -"_Comete tu cola, Martinez, comete tu cola_!" (Eat your tail, Martinez, -eat your tail!) Almost at once he died in a convulsion. - -After day-break Trinidad went forth declaring (and the Mexican women -confirmed him) that at the moment of death Father Lucero had looked into -the other world and beheld Padre Martinez in torment. As long as the -Christians who were about that death-bed lived, the story was whispered -in Arroyo Hondo. - - -When the floor of the priest's house was taken up, according to his last -instructions, people came from as far as Taos and Santa Cruz and Mora to -see the buckskin bags of gold and silver coin that were buried beneath -it. Spanish coins, French, American, English, some of them very old. -When it was at length conveyed to a Government mint and examined, it was -valued at nearly twenty thousand dollars in American money. A great sum -for one old priest to have scraped together in a country parish down at -the bottom of a ditch. - - - - -BOOK SIX - -_DOÑA ISABELLA_ - - - - -1 - -DON ANTONIO - - -BISHOP LATOUR had one very keen worldly ambition; to build in Santa Fé -a cathedral which would be worthy of a setting naturally beautiful. As -he cherished this wish and meditated upon it, he came to feel that such -a building might be a continuation of himself and his purpose, a -physical body full of his aspirations after he had passed from the -scene. Early in his administration he began setting aside something from -his meagre resources for a cathedral fund. In this he was assisted by -certain of the rich Mexican _rancheros_, but by no one so much as by Don -Antonio Olivares. - -Antonio Olivares was the most intelligent and prosperous member of a -large family of brothers and cousins, and he was for that time and place -a man of wide experience, a man of the world. He had spent the greater -part of his life in New Orleans and El Paso del Norte, but he returned -to live in Santa Fé several years after Bishop Latour took up his -duties there. He brought with him his American wife and a wagon train of -furniture, and settled down to spend his declining years in the old -ranch house just east of the town where he was born and had grown up. He -was then a man of sixty. In early manhood he had lost his first wife; -after he went to New Orleans he had married a second time, a Kentucky -girl who had grown up among her relatives in Louisiana. She was pretty -and accomplished, had been educated at a French convent, and had done -much to Europeanize her husband. The refinement of his dress and -manners, and his lavish style of living, provoked half-contemptuous envy -among his brothers and their friends. - -Olivares's wife, Doña Isabella, was a devout Catholic, and at their -house the French priests were always welcome and were most cordially -entertained. The Señora Olivares had made a pleasant place of the -rambling adobe building, with its great courtyard and gateway, carved -joists and beams, fine herring-bone ceilings and snug fire-places. She -was a gracious hostess, and though no longer very young, she was still -attractive to the eye; a slight woman, spirited, quick in movement, with -a delicate blonde complexion which she had successfully guarded in -trying climates, and fair hair--a little silvered, and perhaps worn in -too many puffs and ringlets for the sharpening outline of her face. She -spoke French well, Spanish lamely, played the harp, and sang agreeably. - -Certainly it was a great piece of luck for Father Latour and Father -Vaillant, who lived so much among peons and Indians and rough -frontiersmen, to be able to converse in their own tongue now and then -with a cultivated woman; to sit by that hospitable fireside, in rooms -enriched by old mirrors and engravings and upholstered chairs, where the -windows had clean curtains, and the sideboard and cupboards were stocked -with plate and Belgian glass. It was refreshing to spend an evening with -a couple who were interested in what was going on in the outside world, -to eat a good dinner and drink good wine, and listen to music. Father -Joseph, that man of inconsistencies, had a pleasing tenor voice, true -though not strong. Madame Olivares liked to sing old French songs with -him. She was a trifle vain, it must be owned, and when she sang at all, -insisted upon singing in three languages, never forgetting her husband's -favourites, "La Paloma" and "La Golandrina," and "My Nelly Was A Lady." -The negro melodies of Stephen Foster had already travelled to the -frontier, going along the river highways, not in print, but passed on -from one humble singer to another. - -Don Antonio was a large man, heavy, full at the belt, a trifle bald, and -very slow of speech. But his eyes were lively, and the yellow spark in -them was often most perceptible when he was quite silent. It was -interesting to observe him after dinner, settled in one of his big -chairs from New Orleans, a cigar between his long golden-brown fingers, -watching his wife at her harp. - -There was gossip about the lady in Santa Fé, of course, since she had -retained her beautiful complexion and her husband's devoted regard for -so many years. The Americans and the Olivares brothers said she dressed -much too youthfully, which was perhaps true, and that she had lovers in -New Orleans and El Paso del Norte. Her nephews-in-law went so far as to -declare that she was enamoured of the Mexican boy the Olivares had -brought up from San Antonio to play the banjo for them,--they both loved -music, and this boy, Pablo, was a magician with his instrument. All -sorts of stories went out from the kitchen; that Doña Isabella had a -whole chamber full of dresses so grand that she never wore them here at -all; that she took gold from her husband's pockets and hid it under the -floor of her room; that she gave him love potions and herb-teas to -increase his ardour. This gossip did not mean that her servants were -disloyal, but rather that they were proud of their mistress. - -Olivares, who read the newspapers, though they were weeks old when he -got them, who liked cigars better than cigarettes, and French wine -better than whisky, had little in common with his younger brothers. Next -to his old friend Manuel Chavez, the two French priests were the men in -Santa Fé whose company he most enjoyed, and he let them see it. He was -a man who cherished his friends. He liked to call at the Bishop's house -to advise him about the care of his young orchard, or to leave a bottle -of home-made cherry brandy for Father Joseph. It was Olivares who -presented Father Latour with the silver hand-basin and pitcher and -toilet accessories which gave him so much satisfaction all the rest of -his life. There were good silversmiths among the Mexicans of Santa Fé, -and Don Antonio had his own toilet-set copied in hammered silver for his -friend. Doña Isabella once remarked that her husband always gave Father -Vaillant something good for the palate, and Father Latour something good -for the eye. - -This couple had one child, a daughter, the Señorita Inez, born long ago -and still unmarried. Indeed, it was generally understood that she would -never marry. Though she had not taken the veil, her life was that of a -nun. She was very plain and had none of her mother's social graces, but -she had a beautiful contralto voice. She sang in the Cathedral choir in -New Orleans, and taught singing in a convent there. She came to visit -her parents only once after they settled in Santa Fé, and she was a -somewhat sombre figure in that convivial household. Doña Isabella -seemed devotedly attached to her, but afraid of displeasing her. While -Inez was there, her mother dressed very plainly, pinned back the little -curls that hung over her right ear, and the two women went to church -together all day long. - -Antonio Olivares was deeply interested in the Bishop's dream of a -cathedral. For one thing, he saw that Father Latour had set his heart on -building one, and Olivares was the sort of man who liked to help a -friend accomplish the desire of his heart. Furthermore, he had a deep -affection for his native town, he had travelled and seen fine churches, -and he wished there might some day be one in Santa Fé. Many a night he -and Father Latour talked of it by the fire; discussed the site, the -design, the building stone, the cost and the grave difficulties of -raising money. It was the Bishop's hope to begin work upon the building -in 1860, ten years after his appointment to the Bishopric. One night, at -a long-remembered New Year's party in his house, Olivares announced in -the presence of his guests that before the new year was gone he meant to -give to the Cathedral fund a sum sufficient to enable Father Latour to -carry out his purpose. - -That supper party at the Olivares' was memorable because of this pledge, -and because it marked a parting of old friends. Doña Isabella was -entertaining the officers at the Post, two of whom had received orders -to leave Santa Fé. The popular Commandant was called back to -Washington, the young lieutenant of cavalry, an Irish Catholic, lately -married and very dear to Father Latour, was to be sent farther west. -(Before the next New Year's Day came round he was killed in Indian -warfare on the plains of Arizona.) - -But that night the future troubled nobody; the house was full of light -and music, the air warm with that simple hospitality of the frontier, -where people dwell in exile, far from their kindred, where they lead -rough lives and seldom meet together for pleasure. Kit Carson, who -greatly admired Madame Olivares, had come the two days' journey from -Taos to be present that night, and brought along his gentle half-breed -daughter, lately home from a convent school in St. Louis. On this -occasion he wore a handsome buckskin coat, embroidered in silver, with -brown velvet cuffs and collar. The officers from the Fort were in dress -uniform, the host as usual wore a broadcloth frock-coat. His wife was in -a hoop-skirt, a French dress from New Orleans, all covered with little -garlands of pink satin roses. The military ladies came out to the -Olivares place in an army wagon, to keep their satin shoes from the mud. -The Bishop had put on his violet vest, which he seldom wore, and Father -Vaillant had donned a fresh new cassock, made by the loving hands of his -sister Philomène, in Riom. - -Father Latour had used to feel a little ashamed that Joseph kept his -sister and her nuns so busy making cassocks and vestments for him; but -the last time he was in France he came to see all this in another light. -When he was visiting Mother Philomène's convent, one of the younger -Sisters had confided to him what an inspiration it was to them, living -in retirement, to work for the far-away missions. She told him also how -precious to them were Father Vaillant's long letters, letters in which -he told his sister of the country, the Indians, the pious Mexican women, -the Spanish martyrs of old. These letters, she said, Mother Philomène -read aloud in the evening. The nun took Father Latour to a window that -jutted out and looked up the narrow street to where the wall turned at -an angle, cutting off further view. "Look," she said, "after the Mother -has read us one of those letters from her brother, I come and stand in -this alcove and look up our little street with its one lamp, and just -beyond the turn there, is New Mexico; all that he has written us of -those red deserts and blue mountains, the great plains and the herds of -bison, and the canyons more profound than our deepest mountain gorges. I -can feel that I am there, my heart beats faster, and it seems but a -moment until the retiring-bell cuts short my dreams." The Bishop went -away believing that it was good for these Sisters to work for Father -Joseph. - -To-night, when Madame Olivares was complimenting Father Vaillant on the -sheen of his poplin and velvet, for some reason Father Latour recalled -that moment with the nun in her alcove window, her white face, her -burning eyes, and sighed. - -After supper was over and the toasts had been drunk, the boy Pablo was -called in to play for the company while the gentlemen smoked. The banjo -always remained a foreign instrument to Father Latour; he found it more -than a little savage. When this strange yellow boy played it, there was -softness and languor in the wire strings--but there was also a kind -of madness; the recklessness, the call of wild countries which all these -men had felt and followed in one way or another. Through clouds of cigar -smoke, the scout and the soldiers, the Mexican _rancheros_ and the -priests, sat silently watching the bent head and crouching shoulders of -the banjo player, and his seesawing yellow hand, which sometimes lost -all form and became a mere whirl of matter in motion, like a patch of -sand-storm. - -Observing them thus in repose, in the act of reflection, Father Latour -was thinking how each of these men not only had a story, but seemed to -have become his story. Those anxious, far-seeing blue eyes of Carson's, -to whom could they belong but to a scout and trail-breaker? Don Manuel -Chavez, the handsomest man of the company, very elegant in velvet and -broadcloth, with delicately cut, disdainful features,--one had only to -see him cross the room, or to sit next him at dinner, to feel the -electric quality under his cold reserve; the fierceness of some -embitterment, the passion for danger. - -Chavez boasted his descent from two Castilian knights who freed the city -of Chavez from the Moors in 1160. He had estates in the Pecos and in the -San Mateo mountains, and a house in Santa Fé, where he hid himself -behind his beautiful trees and gardens. He loved the natural beauties of -his country with a passion, and he hated the Americans who were blind to -them. He was jealous of Carson's fame as an Indian-fighter, declaring -that he had seen more Indian warfare before he was twenty than Carson -would ever see. He was easily Carson's rival as a pistol shot. With the -bow and arrow he had no rival; he had never been beaten. No Indian had -ever been known to shoot an arrow as far as Chavez. Every year parties -of Indians came up to the Villa to shoot with him for wagers. His house -and stables were full of trophies. He took a cool pleasure in stripping -the Indians of their horses or silver or blankets, or whatever they had -put up on their man. He was proud of his skill with Indian weapons; he -had acquired it in a hard school. - -When he was a lad of sixteen Manuel Chavez had gone out with a party of -Mexican youths to hunt Navajos. In those days, before the American -occupation, "hunting Navajos" needed no pretext, it was a form of sport. -A company of Mexicans would ride west to the Navajo country, raid a few -sheep camps, and come home bringing flocks and ponies and a bunch of -prisoners, for every one of whom they received a large bounty from the -Mexican Government. It was with such a raiding party that the boy Chavez -went out for spoil and adventure. - -Finding no Indians abroad, the young Mexicans pushed on farther than -they had intended. They did not know that it was the season when all the -roving Navajo bands gather at the Canyon de Chelly for their religious -ceremonies, and they rode on impetuously until they came out upon the -rim of that mysterious and terrifying canyon itself, then swarming with -Indians. They were immediately surrounded, and retreat was impossible. -They fought on the naked sandstone ledges that overhang that gulf. Don -José Chavez, Manuel's older brother, was captain of the party, and was -one of the first to fall. The company of fifty were slaughtered to a -man. Manuel was the fifty-first, and he survived. With seven arrow -wounds, and one shaft clear through his body, he was left for dead in a -pile of corpses. - -That night, while the Navajos were celebrating their victory, the boy -crawled along the rocks until he had high boulders between him and the -enemy, and then started eastward on foot. It was summer, and the heat of -that red sandstone country is intense. His wounds were on fire. But he -had the superb vitality of early youth. He walked for two days and -nights without finding a drop of water, covering a distance of sixty odd -miles, across the plain, across the mountain, until he came to the -famous spring on the other side, where Fort Defiance was afterward -built. There he drank and bathed his wounds and slept. He had had no -food since the morning before the fight; near the spring he found some -large cactus plants, and slicing away the spines with his hunting-knife, -he filled his stomach with the juicy pulp. - -From here, still without meeting a human creature, he stumbled on until -he reached the San Mateo mountain, north of Laguna. In a mountain valley -he came upon a camp of Mexican shepherds, and fell unconscious. The -shepherds made a litter of saplings and their sheepskin coats and -carried him into the village of Cebolleta, where he lay delirious for -many days. Years afterward, when Chavez came into his inheritance, he -bought that beautiful valley in the San Mateo mountain where he had sunk -unconscious under two noble oak trees. He built a house between those -twin oaks, and made a fine estate there. - -Never reconciled to American rule, Chavez lived in seclusion when he was -in Santa Fé. At the first rumour of an Indian outbreak, near or far, he -rode off to add a few more scalps to his record. He distrusted the new -Bishop because of his friendliness toward Indians and Yankees. Besides, -Chavez was a Martinez man. He had come here to-night only in compliment -to Señora Olivares; he hated to spend an evening among American -uniforms. - -When the banjo player was exhausted, Father Joseph said that as for him, -he would like a little drawing-room music, and he led Madame Olivares to -her harp. She was very charming at her instrument; the pose suited her -tip-tilted canary head, and her little foot and white arms. - -This was the last time the Bishop heard her sing "La Paloma" for her -admiring husband, whose eyes smiled at her even when his heavy face -seemed asleep. - - -Olivares died on Septuagesima Sunday--fell over by his own fire-place -when he was lighting the candles after supper, and the banjo boy was -sent running for the Bishop. Before midnight two of the Olivares -brothers, half drunk with brandy and excitement, galloped out of Santa -Fé, on the road to Albuquerque, to employ an American lawyer. - - - - -2 - -THE LADY - - -ANTONIO OLIVARES'S funeral was the most solemn and magnificent ever seen -in Santa Fé, but Father Vaillant was not there. He was off on a long -missionary journey to the south, and did not reach home until Madame -Olivares had been a widow for some weeks. He had scarcely got off his -riding-boots when he was called into Father Latour's study to see her -lawyer. - -Olivares had entrusted the management of his affairs to a young Irish -Catholic, Boyd O'Reilly, who had come out from Boston to practise law in -the new Territory. There were no steel safes in Santa Fé at that time, -but O'Reilly had kept Olivares's will in his strong-box. The document -was brief and clear: Antonio's estate amounted to about two hundred -thousand dollars in American money (a considerable fortune in those -days). The income therefrom was to be enjoyed by "my wife, Isabella -Olivares, and her daughter, Inez Olivares," during their lives, and -after their decease his property was to go to the Church, to the Society -for the Propagation of the Faith. The codicil, in favour of the -Cathedral fund, had, unfortunately, never been added to the will. - -The young lawyer explained to Father Vaillant that the Olivares brothers -had retained the leading legal firm of Albuquerque and were contesting -the will. Their point of attack was that Señorita Inez was too old to -be the daughter of the Señora Olivares. Don Antonio had been a -promiscuous lover in his young days, and his brothers held that Inez was -the offspring of some temporary attachment, and had been adopted by -Doña Isabella. O'Reilly had sent to New Orleans for an attested copy of -the marriage record of the Olivares couple, and the birth certificate of -Señorita Inez. But in Kentucky, where the Señora was born, no birth -records were kept; there was no document to prove the age of Isabella -Olivares, and she could not be persuaded to admit her true age. It was -generally believed in Santa Fé that she was still in her early forties, -in which case she would not have been more than six or eight years old -at the date when Inez was born. In reality the lady was past fifty, but -when O'Reilly had tried to persuade her to admit this in court, she -simply refused to listen to him. He begged the Bishop and the Vicar to -use their influence with her to this end. - -Father Latour shrank from interfering in so delicate a matter, but -Father Vaillant saw at once that it was their plain duty to protect the -two women and, at the same time, secure the rights of the Propaganda. -Without more ado he threw on his old cloak over his cassock, and the -three men set off through the red mud to the Olivares hacienda in the -hills east of the town. - -Father Joseph had not been to the Olivares' house since the night of the -New Year's party, and he sighed as he approached the place, already -transformed by neglect. The big gate was propped open by a pole because -the iron hook was gone, the courtyard was littered with rags and meat -bones which the dogs had carried there and no one had taken away. The -big parrot cage, hanging in the _portale_, was filthy, and the birds -were squalling. When O'Reilly rang the bell at the outer gate, Pablo, -the banjo player, came running out with tousled hair and a dirty shirt -to admit the visitors. He took them into the long living-room, which was -empty and cold, the fire-place dark, the hearth unswept. Chairs and -window-sills were deep in red dust, the glass panes dirty, and streaked -as if by tear-drops. On the writing-table were empty bottles and sticky -glasses and cigar ends. In one corner stood the harp in its green cover. - -Pablo asked the Fathers to be seated. His mistress was staying in bed, -he said, and the cook had burnt her hand, and the other maids were lazy. -He brought wood and laid a fire. - -After some time, Doña Isabella entered, dressed in heavy mourning, her -face very white against the black, and her eyes red. The curls about her -neck and ears were pale, too--quite ashen. - -After Father Vaillant had greeted her and spoken consoling words, the -young lawyer began once more gently to explain to her the difficulties -that confronted them, and what they must do to defeat the action of the -Olivares family. She sat submissively, touching her eyes and nose with -her little lace handkerchief, and clearly not even trying to understand -a word of what he said to her. - -Father Joseph soon lost patience and himself approached the widow. "You -understand, my child," he began briskly, "that your husband's brothers -are determined to disregard his wishes, to defraud you and your -daughter, and, eventually, the Church. This is no time for childish -vanity. To prevent this outrage to your husband's memory, you must -satisfy the court that you are old enough to be the mother of -Mademoiselle Inez. You must resolutely declare your true age; -fifty-three, is it not?" - -Doña Isabella became pallid with fright. She shrank into one end of the -deep sofa, but her blue eyes focused and gathered light, as she became -intensely, rigidly animated in her corner,--her back against the wall, -as it were. - -"Fifty-three!" she cried in a voice of horrified amazement. "Why, I -never heard of anything so outrageous! I was forty-two my last birthday. -It was in December, the fourth of December. If Antonio were here, he -would tell you! And he wouldn't let you scold me and talk about business -to me, either, Father Joseph. He never let anybody talk about business -to me!" She hid her face in her little handkerchief and began to cry. - -Father Latour checked his impetuous Vicar, and sat down on the sofa -beside Madame Olivares, feeling very sorry for her and speaking very -gently. "Forty-two to your friends, dear Madame Olivares, and to the -world. In heart and face you are younger than that. But to the Law and -the Church there must be a literal reckoning. A formal statement in -court will not make you any older to your friends; it will not add one -line to your face. A woman, you know, is as old as she looks." - -"That's very sweet of you to say, Bishop Latour," the lady quavered, -looking up at him with tearbright eyes. "But I never could hold up my -head again. Let the Olivares have that old money. I don't want it." - -Father Vaillant sprang up and glared down at her as if he could put -common sense into her drooping head by the mere intensity of his gaze. -"Four hundred thousand pesos, Señora Isabella!" he cried. "Ease and -comfort for you and your daughter all the rest of your lives. Would you -make your daughter a beggar? The Olivares will take everything." - -"I can't help it about Inez," she pleaded. "Inez means to go into the -convent anyway. And I don't care about the money. _Ah, mon père, je -voudrais mieux être jeune et mendiante, que n'être que vieille et -riche, certes, oui_!" - -Father Joseph caught her icy cold hand. "And have you a right to defraud -the Church of what is left to it in your trust? Have you thought of the -consequences to yourself of such a betrayal?" - -Father Latour glanced sternly at his Vicar. "_Assez_," he said quietly. -He took the little hand Father Joseph had released and bent over it, -kissing it respectfully. "We must not press this any further. We must -leave this to Madame Olivares and her own conscience. I believe, my -daughter, you will come to realize that this sacrifice of your vanity -would be for your soul's peace. Looking merely at the temporal aspect of -the case, you would find poverty hard to bear. You would have to live -upon the Olivares's charity, would you not? I do not wish to see this -come about. I have a selfish interest; I wish you to be always your -charming self and to make a little _poésie_ in life for us here. We -have not much of that." - -Madame Olivares stopped crying. She raised her head and sat drying her -eyes. Suddenly she took hold of one of the buttons on the Bishop's -cassock and began twisting it with nervous fingers. - -"Father," she said timidly, "what is the youngest I could possibly be, -to be Inez's mother?" - -The Bishop could not pronounce the verdict; he hesitated, flushed, then -passed it on to O'Reilly with an open gesture of his fine white hand. - -"Fifty-two, Señora Olivares," said the young man respectfully. "If I -can get you to admit that, and stick to it, I feel sure we will win our -case." - -"Very well, Mr. O'Reilly." She bowed her head. As her visitors rose, she -sat looking down at the dust-covered rugs. "Before everybody!" she -murmured, as if to herself. - -When they were tramping home, Father Joseph said that as for him, he -would rather combat the superstitions of a whole Indian pueblo than the -vanity of one white woman. - -"And I would rather do almost anything than go through such a scene -again," said the Bishop with a frown. "I don't think I ever assisted at -anything so cruel." - - -Boyd O'Reilly defeated the Olivares brothers and won his case. The -Bishop would not go to the court hearing, but Father Vaillant was there, -standing in the malodorous crowd (there were no chairs in the court -room), and his knees shook under him when the young lawyer, with the -fierceness born of fright, poked his finger at his client and said: - -"Señora Olivares, you are fifty-two years of age, are you not?" - -Madame Olivares was swathed in mourning, her face a streak of shadowed -white between folds of black veil. - -"Yes, sir." The crape barely let it through. - -The night after the verdict was pronounced, Manuel Chavez, with several -of Antonio's old friends, called upon the widow to congratulate her. -Word of their intention had gone about the town and put others in the -mood to call at a house that had been closed to visitors for so long. A -considerable company gathered there that evening, including some of the -military people, and several hereditary enemies of the Olivares -brothers. - -The cook, stimulated by the sight of the long sala full of people once -more, hastily improvised a supper. Pablo put on a white shirt and a -velvet jacket, and began to carry up from the cellar his late master's -best whisky and sherry, and quarts of champagne. (The Mexicans are very -fond of sparkling wines. Only a few years before this, an American -trader who had got into serious political trouble with the Mexican -military authorities in Santa Fé, regained their confidence and -friendship by presenting them with a large wagon shipment of -champagne--three thousand, three hundred and ninety-two bottles, -indeed!) - -This hospitable mood came upon the house suddenly, nothing had been -prepared beforehand. The wineglasses were full of dust, but Pablo wiped -them out with the shirt he had just taken off, and without instructions -from anyone he began gliding about with a tray full of glasses, which he -afterward refilled many times, taking his station at the sideboard. -Even Doña Isabella drank a little champagne; when she had sipped one -glass with the young Georgia captain, she could not refuse to take -another with their nearest neighbour, Ferdinand Sanchez, always a true -friend to her husband. Everyone was gay, the servants and the guests, -everything sparkled like a garden after a shower. - -Father Latour and Father Vaillant, having heard nothing of this -spontaneous gathering of friends, set off at eight o'clock to make a -call upon the brave widow. When they entered the courtyard, they were -astonished to hear music within, and to see light streaming from the -long row of windows behind the _portale_. Without stopping to knock, -they opened the door into the _sala_. Many candles were burning. Señors -were standing about in long frock-coats buttoned over full figures. -O'Reilly and a group of officers from the Fort surrounded the sideboard, -where Pablo, with a white napkin wrapped showily about his wrist, was -pouring champagne. From the other end of the room sounded the high -tinkle of the harp, and Doña Isabella's voice: - - - "_Listen to the mocking-bird_, - _Listen to the mocking-bird!_" - - -The priests waited in the doorway until the song was finished, then went -forward to pay their respects to the hostess. She was wearing the -unrelieved white that grief permitted, and the yellow curls were bobbing -as of old--three behind her right ear, one over either temple, and a -little row across the back of her neck. As she saw the two black figures -approaching, she dropped her arms from the harp, took her satin toe from -the pedal, and rose, holding out a hand to each. Her eyes were bright, -and her face beamed with affection for her spiritual fathers. But her -greeting was a playful reproach, uttered loud enough to be heard above -the murmur of conversing groups: - -"I never shall forgive you, Father Joseph, nor you either, Bishop -Latour, for that awful lie you made me tell in court about my age!" - -The two churchmen bowed amid laughter and applause. - - - - -BOOK SEVEN - -_THE GREAT DIOCESE_ - - - - -1 - -THE MONTH OF MARY - - -THE Bishop's work was sometimes assisted, often impeded, by external -events. - -By the Gadsden Purchase, executed three years after Father Latour came -to Santa Fé, the United States took over from Mexico a great territory -which now forms southern New Mexico and Arizona. The authorities at Rome -notified Father Latour that this new territory was to be annexed to his -diocese, but that as the national boundary lines often cut parishes in -two, the boundaries of Church jurisdiction must be settled by conference -with the Mexican Bishops of Chihuahua and Sonora. Such conferences would -necessitate a journey of nearly four thousand miles. As Father Vaillant -remarked, at Rome they did not seem to realize that it was no easy -matter for two missionaries on horseback to keep up with the march of -history. - -The question hung fire for some years, the subject of voluminous -correspondence. At last, in 1858, Father Vaillant was sent to arrange -the debated boundaries with the Mexican Bishops. He started in the -autumn and spent the whole winter on the road, going from El Paso del -Norte west to Tucson, on to Santa Magdalena and Guaymas, a seaport town -on the Gulf of California, and did some seafaring on the Pacific before -he turned homeward. - -On his return trip he was stricken with malarial fever, resulting from -exposure and bad water, and lay seriously ill in a cactus desert in -Arizona. Word of his illness came to Santa Fé by an Indian runner, and -Father Latour and Jacinto rode across New Mexico and half of Arizona, -found Father Vaillant, and brought him back by easy stages. - -He was ill in the Bishop's house for two months. This was the first -spring that he and Father Latour had both been there at the same time, -to enjoy the garden they had laid out soon after they first came to -Santa Fé. - - -It was the month of Mary and the month of May. Father Vaillant was lying -on an army cot, covered with blankets, under the grape arbour in the -garden, watching the Bishop and his gardener at work in the vegetable -plots. The apple trees were in blossom, the cherry blooms had gone by. -The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the -soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air -one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot -had a reflection of blue sky in it. - -This garden had been laid out six years ago, when the Bishop brought his -fruit trees (then dry switches) up from St. Louis in wagons, along with -the blessed Sisters of Loretto, who came to found the Academy of Our -Lady of Light. The school was now well established, reckoned a benefit -to the community by Protestants as well as Catholics, and the trees were -bearing. Cuttings from them were already yielding fruit in many Mexican -gardens. While the Bishop was away on that first trip to Baltimore, -Father Joseph had, in addition to his many official duties, found time -to instruct their Mexican housekeeper, Fructosa, in cookery. Later -Bishop Latour took in hand Fructosa's husband, Tranquilino, and trained -him as a gardener. They had boldly planned for the future; the ground -behind the church, between the Bishop's house and the Academy, they laid -out as a spacious orchard and kitchen-garden. Ever since then the Bishop -had worked on it, planting and pruning. It was his only recreation. - -A line of young poplars linked the Episcopal courtyard with the school. -On the south, against the earth wall, was the one row of trees they had -found growing there when they first came,--old, old tamarisks, with -twisted trunks. They had been so neglected, left to fight for life in -such hard, sun-baked, burro-trodden ground, that their trunks had the -hardness of cypress. They looked, indeed, like very old posts, well -seasoned and polished by time, miraculously endowed with the power to -burst into delicate foliage and flowers, to cover themselves with long -brooms of lavender-pink blossom. - -Father Joseph had come to love the tamarisk above all trees. It had been -the companion of his wanderings. All along his way through the deserts -of New Mexico and Arizona, wherever he had come upon a Mexican -homestead, out of the sun-baked earth, against the sun-baked adobe -walls, the tamarisk waved its feathery plumes of bluish green. The -family burro was tied to its trunk, the chickens scratched under it, the -dogs slept in its shade, the washing was hung on its branches. Father -Latour had often remarked that this tree seemed especially designed in -shape and colour for the adobe village. The sprays of bloom which adorn -it are merely another shade of the red earth walls, and its fibrous -trunk is full of gold and lavender tints. Father Joseph respected the -Bishop's eye for such things, but himself he loved it merely because it -was the tree of the people, and was like one of the family in every -Mexican household. - -This was a very happy season for Father Vaillant. For years he had not -been able properly to observe this month which in his boyhood he had -selected to be the holy month of the year for him, dedicated to the -contemplation of his Gracious Patroness. In his former missionary life, -on the Great Lakes, he used always to go into retreat at this season. -But here there was no time for such things. Last year, in May, he had -been on his way to the Hopi Indians, riding thirty miles a day; -marrying, baptizing, confessing as he went, making camp in the -sand-hills at night. His devotions had been constantly interrupted by -practical considerations. - -But this year, because of his illness, the month of Mary he had been -able to give to Mary; to Her he had consecrated his waking hours. At -night he sank to sleep with the sense of Her protection. In the morning -when he awoke, before he had opened his eyes, he was conscious of a -special sweetness in the air,--Mary, and the month of May. _Alma Mater -redemptoris_! Once more he had been able to worship with the ardour of a -young religious, for whom religion is pure personal devotion, unalloyed -by expediency and the benumbing cares of a missionary's work. Once again -this had been his month; his Patroness had given it to him, the season -that had always meant so much in his religious life. - -He smiled to remember a time long ago, when he was a young curate in -Cendre, in the Puy-de-Dôm; how he had planned a season of special -devotion to the Blessed Virgin for May, and how the old priest to whom -he was assistant had blasted his hopes by cold disapproval. The old man -had come through the Terror, had been trained in the austerity of those -days of the persecution of the clergy, and he was not untouched by -Jansenism. Young Father Joseph bore his rebuke with meekness, and went -sadly to his own chamber. There he took his rosary and spent the entire -day in prayer. "_Not according to my desires, but if it is for thy -glory, grant me this boon, O Mary, my hope_." In the evening of that -same day the old pastor sent for him, and unsolicited granted him the -request he had so sternly denied in the morning. How joyfully Father -Joseph had written all this to his sister Philomène, then a pupil with -the nuns of the Visitation in their native Riom, begging her to make him -a quantity of artificial flowers for his May altar. How richly she had -responded!--and she rejoiced no less than he that his May devotions were -so largely attended, especially by the young people of the parish, in -whom a notable increase of piety was manifest. Father Vaillant's had -been a close-knit family--losing their mother while they were yet -children had brought the brothers and sisters the closer together--and -with this sister, Philomène, he had shared all his hopes and desires -and his deepest religious life. - -Ever since then, all the most important events in his own history had -occurred in the blessed month when this sinful and sullied world puts on -white as if to commemorate the Annunciation, and becomes, for a little, -lovely enough to be in truth the Bride of Christ. It was in May that he -had been given grace to perform the hardest act of his life; to leave -his country, to part from his dear sister and his father (under what sad -circumstances!), and to start for the New World to take up a -missionary's labours. That parting was not a parting, but an escape--a -running away, a betrayal of family trust for the sake of a higher trust. -He could smile at it now, but at the time it had been terrible enough. -The Bishop, thinning carrots yonder, would remember. It was because of -what Father Latour had been to him in that hour, indeed, that Father -Joseph was here in a garden in Santa Fé. He would never have left his -dear Sandusky when the newly appointed Bishop asked him to share his -hardships, had he not said to himself: "Ah, now it is he who is torn by -perplexity! I will be to him now what he was to me that day when we -stood by the road-side, waiting for the _diligence_ to Paris, and my -purpose broke, and he saved me." - -That time came back upon Father Vaillant now so keenly that he wiped a -little moisture from his eyes,--(he was quickly moved, after the way of -sick people) and he cleared his glasses and called: - -"Father Latour, it is time for you to rest your back. You have been -stooping over a great while." - -The Bishop came and sat down in a wheelbarrow that stood at the edge of -the arbour. - -"I have been thinking that I shall no longer pray for your speedy -recovery, Joseph. The only way I can keep my Vicar within call is to -have him sick." - -Father Joseph smiled. - -"You are not in Santa Fé a great deal yourself, my Bishop." - -"Well, I shall be here this summer, and I hope to keep you with me. This -year I want you to see my lotus flowers. Tranquilino will let the water -into my lake this afternoon." The lake was a little pond in the middle -of the garden, into which Tranquilino, clever with water, like all -Mexicans, had piped a stream from the Santa Fé creek flowing near at -hand. "Last summer, while you were away," the Bishop continued, "we had -more than a hundred lotus blossoms floating on that little lake. And all -from five bulbs that I put into my valise in Rome." - -"When do they blossom?" - -"They begin in June, but they are at their best in July." - -"Then you must hurry them up a little. For with my Bishop's permission, -I shall be gone in July." - -"So soon? And why?" - -Father Vaillant moved uneasily under his blankets. "To hunt for lost -Catholics, Jean! Utterly lost Catholics, down in your new territory, -towards Tucson. There are hundreds of poor families down there who have -never seen a priest. I want to go from house to house this time, to -every little settlement. They are full of devotion and faith, and it has -nothing to feed upon but the most mistaken superstitions. They remember -their prayers all wrong. They cannot read, and since there is no one to -instruct them, how can they get right? They are like seeds, full of -germination but with no moisture. A mere contact is enough to make them -a living part of the Church. The more I work with the Mexicans, the more -I believe it was people like them our Saviour bore in mind when He said, -_Unless ye become as little children_. He was thinking of people who are -not clever in the things of this world, whose minds are not upon gain -and worldly advancement. These poor Christians are not thrifty like our -country people at home; they have no veneration for property, no sense -of material values. I stop a few hours in a village, I administer the -sacraments and hear confessions, I leave in every house some little -token, a rosary or a religious picture, and I go away feeling that I -have conferred immeasurable happiness, and have released faithful souls -that were shut away from God by neglect. - -"Down near Tucson a Pima Indian convert once asked me to go off into the -desert with him, as he had something to show me. He took me into a place -so wild that a man less accustomed to these things might have mistrusted -and feared for his life. We descended into a terrifying canyon of black -rock, and there in the depths of a cave, he showed me a golden chalice, -vestments and cruets, all the paraphernalia for celebrating Mass. His -ancestors had hidden these sacred objects there when the mission was -sacked by Apaches, he did not know how many generations ago. The secret -had been handed down in his family, and I was the first priest who had -ever come to restore to God his own. To me, that is the situation in a -parable. The Faith, in that wild frontier, is like a buried treasure; -they guard it, but they do not know how to use it to their soul's -salvation. A word, a prayer, a service, is all that is needed to set -free those souls in bondage. I confess I am covetous of that mission. I -desire to be the man who restores these lost children to God. It will be -the greatest happiness of my life." - -The Bishop did not reply at once to this appeal. At last he said -gravely, "You must realize that I have need of you here, Father Joseph. -My duties are too many for one man." - -"But you do not need me so much as they do!" Father Joseph threw off his -coverings and sat up in his cassock, putting his feet to the ground. -"Any one of our good French priests from Montferrand can serve you here. -It is work that can be done by intelligence. But down there it is work -for the heart, for a particular sympathy, and none of our new priests -understand those poor natures as I do. I have almost become a Mexican! I -have learned to like _chili colorado_ and mutton fat. Their foolish ways -no longer offend me, their very faults are dear to me. I am _their -man_!" - -"Ah, no doubt, no doubt! But I must insist upon your lying down for the -present." - -Father Vaillant, flushed and excited, dropped back upon his pillows, and -the Bishop took a short turn through the garden,--to the row of tamarisk -trees and back. He walked slowly, with even, unhesitating pace, with -that slender, unrigid erectness, and the fine carriage of head, which -always made him seem master of the situation. No one would have guessed -that a sharp struggle was going on within him. Father Joseph's -impassioned request had spoiled a cherished plan, and brought Father -Latour a bitter personal disappointment. There was but one thing to -do,--and before he reached the tamarisks he had done it. He broke off a -spray of the dry lilac-coloured flowers to punctuate and seal, as it -were, his renunciation. He returned with the same easy, deliberate -tread, and stood smiling beside the army cot. - -"Your feeling must be your guide in this matter, Joseph. I shall put no -obstacles in your way. A certain care for your health I must insist -upon, but when you are quite well, you must follow the duty that calls -loudest." - -They were both silent for a few moments. Father Joseph closed his eyes -against the sunlight, and Father Latour stood lost in thought, drawing -the plume of tamarisk blossom absently through his delicate, rather -nervous fingers. His hands had a curious authority, but not the calmness -so often seen in the hands of priests; they seemed always to be -investigating and making firm decisions. - -The two friends were roused from their reflections by a frantic beating -of wings. A bright flock of pigeons swept over their heads to the far -end of the garden, where a woman was just emerging from the gate that -led into the school grounds; Magdalena, who came every day to feed the -doves and to gather flowers. The Sisters had given her charge of the -altar decoration of the school chapel for this month, and she came for -the Bishop's apple blossoms and daffodils. She advanced in a whirlwind -of gleaming wings, and Tranquilino dropped his spade and stood watching -her. At one moment the whole flock of doves caught the light in such a -way that they all became invisible at once, dissolved in light and -disappeared as salt dissolves in water. The next moment they flashed -around, black and silver against the sun. They settled upon Magdalena's -arms and shoulders, ate from her hand. When she put a crust of bread -between her lips, two doves hung in the air before her face, stirring -their wings and pecking at the morsel. A handsome woman she had grown to -be, with her comely figure and the deep claret colour under the golden -brown of her cheeks. - -"Who would think, to look at her now, that we took her from a place -where every vileness of cruelty and lust was practised!" murmured Father -Vaillant. "Not since the days of early Christianity has the Church been -able to do what it can here." - -"She is but twenty-seven or -eight years old. I wonder whether she ought -not to marry again," said the Bishop thoughtfully. "Though she seems so -contented, I have sometimes surprised a tragic shadow in her eyes. Do -you remember the terrible look in her eyes when we first saw her?" - -"Can I ever forget it! But her very body has changed. She was then a -shapeless, cringing creature. I thought her half-witted. No, no! She has -had enough of the storms of this world. Here she is safe and happy." -Father Vaillant sat up and called to her. "Magdalena, Magdalena, my -child, come here and talk to us for a little. Two men grow lonely when -they see nobody but each other." - - - - -2 - -DECEMBER NIGHT - - -FATHER VAILLANT had been absent in Arizona since midsummer, and it was -now December. Bishop Latour had been going through one of those periods -of coldness and doubt which, from his boyhood, had occasionally settled -down upon his spirit and made him feel an alien, wherever he was. He -attended to his correspondence, went on his rounds among the parish -priests, held services at missions that were without pastors, -superintended the building of the addition to the Sisters' school: but -his heart was not in these things. - -One night about three weeks before Christmas he was lying in his bed, -unable to sleep, with the sense of failure clutching at his heart. His -prayers were empty words and brought him no refreshment. His soul had -become a barren field. He had nothing within himself to give his priests -or his people. His work seemed superficial, a house built upon the -sands. His great diocese was still a heathen country. The Indians -travelled their old road of fear and darkness, battling with evil omens -and ancient shadows. The Mexicans were children who played with their -religion. - -As the night wore on, the bed on which the Bishop lay became a bed of -thorns; he could bear it no longer. Getting up in the dark, he looked -out of the window and was surprised to find that it was snowing, that -the ground was already lightly covered. The full moon, hidden by veils -of cloud, threw a pale phosphorescent luminousness over the heavens, and -the towers of the church stood up black against this silvery fleece. -Father Latour felt a longing to go into the church to pray; but instead -he lay down again under his blankets. Then, realizing that it was the -cold of the church he shrank from, and despising himself, he rose again, -dressed quickly, and went out into the court, throwing on over his -cassock that faithful old cloak that was the twin of Father Vaillant's. - -They had bought the cloth for those coats in Paris, long ago, when they -were young men staying at the Seminary for Foreign Missions in the rue -du Bac, preparing for their first voyage to the New World. The cloth had -been made up into caped riding-cloaks by a German tailor in Ohio, and -lined with fox fur. Years afterward, when Father Latour was about to -start on his long journey in search of his Bishopric, that same tailor -had made the cloaks over and relined them with squirrel skins, as more -appropriate for a mild climate. These memories and many others went -through the Bishop's mind as he wrapped the trusty garment about him and -crossed the court to the sacristy, with the big iron key in his hand. - -The court was white with snow, and the shadows of walls and buildings -stood out sharply in the faint light from the moon muffled in vapour. In -the deep doorway of the sacristy he saw a crouching figure--a woman, he -made out, and she was weeping bitterly. He raised her up and took her -inside. As soon as he had lit a candle, he recognized her, and could -have guessed her errand. - -It was an old Mexican woman, called Sada, who was slave in an American -family. They were Protestants, very hostile to the Roman Church, and -they did not allow her to go to Mass or to receive the visits of a -priest. She was carefully watched at home,--but in winter, when the -heated rooms of the house were desirable to the family, she was put to -sleep in a woodshed. To-night, unable to sleep for the cold, she had -gathered courage for this heroic action, had slipped out through the -stable door and come running up an alley-way to the House of God to -pray. Finding the front doors of the church fastened, she had made her -way into the Bishop's garden and come round to the sacristy, only to -find that, too, shut against her. - -The Bishop stood holding the candle and watching her face while she -spoke her few words; a dark brown peon face, worn thin and sharp by life -and sorrow. It seemed to him that he had never seen pure goodness shine -out of a human countenance as it did from hers. He saw that she had no -stockings under her shoes,--the cast-off rawhides of her master,--and -beneath her frayed black shawl was only a thin calico dress, covered -with patches. Her teeth struck together as she stood trying to control -her shivering. With one movement of his free hand the Bishop took the -furred cloak from his shoulders and put it about her. This frightened -her. She cowered under it, murmuring, "Ah, no, no, Padre!" - -"You must obey your Padre, my daughter. Draw that cloak about you, and -we will go into the church to pray." - -The church was utterly black except for the red spark of the sanctuary -lamp before the high altar. Taking her hand, and holding the candle -before him, he led her across the choir to the Lady Chapel. There he -began to light the tapers before the Virgin. Old Sada fell on her knees -and kissed the floor. She kissed the feet of the Holy Mother, the -pedestal on which they stood, crying all the while. But from the working -of her face, from the beautiful tremors which passed over it, he knew -they were tears of ecstasy. - -"Nineteen years, Father; nineteen years since I have seen the holy -things of the altar!" - -"All that is passed, Sada. You have remembered the holy things in your -heart. We will pray together." - -The Bishop knelt beside her, and they began, _O Holy Mary, Queen of -Virgins_.... - -More than once Father Vaillant had spoken to the Bishop of this aged -captive. There had been much whispering among the devout women of the -parish about her pitiful case. The Smiths, with whom she lived, were -Georgia people, who had at one time lived in El Paso del Norte, and they -had taken her back to their native State with them. Not long ago some -disgrace had come upon this family in Georgia, they had been forced to -sell all their negro slaves and flee the State. The Mexican woman they -could not sell because they had no legal title to her, her position was -irregular. Now that they were back in a Mexican country, the Smiths were -afraid their charwoman might escape from them and find asylum among her -own people, so they kept strict watch upon her. They did not allow her -to go outside their own _patio_, not even to accompany her mistress to -market. - -Two women of the Altar Guild had been so bold as to go into the _patio_ -to talk with Sada when she was washing clothes, but they had been rudely -driven away by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Smith had come running -out into the court, half dressed, and told them that if they had -business at her _casa_ they were to come in by the front door, and not -sneak in through the stable to frighten a poor silly creature. When they -said they had come to ask Sada to go to Mass with them, she told them -she had got the poor creature out of the clutches of the priests once, -and would see to it that she did not fall into them again. - -Even after that rebuff a very pious neighbour woman had tried to say a -word to Sada through the alley door of the stable, where she was -unloading wood off the burro. But the old servant had put her finger to -her lips and motioned the visitor away, glancing back over her shoulder -the while with such an expression of terror that the intruder hastened -off, surmising that Sada would be harshly used if she were caught -speaking to anyone. The good woman went immediately to Father Vaillant -with this story, and he had consulted the Bishop, declaring that -something ought to be done to secure the consolations of religion for -the bond-woman. But the Bishop replied that the time was not yet; for -the present it was inexpedient to antagonize these people. The Smiths -were the leaders of a small group of low-caste Protestants who took -every occasion to make trouble for the Catholics. They hung about the -door of the church on festival days with mockery and loud laughter, -spoke insolently to the nuns in the street, stood jeering and -blaspheming when the procession went by on Corpus Christi Sunday. There -were five sons in the Smith family, fellows of low habits and evil -tongues. Even the two younger boys, still children, showed a vicious -disposition. Tranquilino had repeatedly driven these two boys out of the -Bishop's garden, where they came with their lewd companions to rob the -young pear trees or to speak filth against the priests. - -When they rose from their knees, Father Latour told Sada he was glad to -know that she remembered her prayers so well. - -"Ah, Padre, every night I say my Rosary to my Holy Mother, no matter -where I sleep!" declared the old creature passionately, looking up into -his face and pressing her knotted hands against her breast. - -When he asked if she had her beads with her, she was confused. She kept -them tied with a cord around her waist, under her clothes, as the only -place she could hide them safely. - -He spoke soothingly to her. "Remember this, Sada; in the year to come, -and during the Novena before Christmas, I will not forget to pray for -you whenever I offer the Blessed Sacrament of the Mass. Be at rest in -your heart, for I will remember you in my silent supplications before -the altar as I do my own sisters and my nieces." - -Never, as he afterward told Father Vaillant, had it been permitted him -to behold such deep experience of the holy joy of religion as on that -pale December night. He was able to feel, kneeling beside her, the -preciousness of the things of the altar to her who was without -possessions; the tapers, the image of the Virgin, the figures of the -saints, the Cross that took away indignity from suffering and made pain -and poverty a means of fellowship with Christ. Kneeling beside the much -enduring bondwoman, he experienced those holy mysteries as he had done -in his young manhood. He seemed able to feel all it meant to her to know -that there was a Kind Woman in Heaven, though there were such cruel ones -on earth. Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's -hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness. Only -a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer. - -Not often, indeed, had Jean Marie Latour come so near to the Fountain of -all Pity as in the Lady Chapel that night; the pity that no man born of -woman could ever utterly cut himself off from; that was for the murderer -on the scaffold, as it was for the dying soldier or the martyr on the -rack. The beautiful concept of Mary pierced the priest's heart like a -sword. - -"_O Sacred Heart of Mary_!" she murmured by his side, and he felt how -that name was food and raiment, friend and mother to her. He received -the miracle in her heart into his own, saw through her eyes, knew that -his poverty was as bleak as hers. When the Kingdom of Heaven had first -come into the world, into a cruel world of torture and slaves and -masters, He who brought it had said, "_And whosoever is least among you, -the same shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven_." This church was -Sada's house, and he was a servant in it. - -The Bishop heard the old woman's confession. He blessed her and put both -hands upon her head. When he took her down the nave to let her out of -the church, Sada made to lift his cloak from her shoulders. He -restrained her, telling her she must keep it for her own, and sleep in -it at night. But she slipped out of it hurriedly; such a thought seemed -to terrify her. "No, no, Father. If they were to find it on me!" More -than that, she did not accuse her oppressors. But as she put it off, she -stroked the old garment and patted it as if it were a living thing that -had been kind to her. - -Happily Father Latour bethought him of a little silver medal, with a -figure of the Virgin, he had in his pocket. He gave it to her, telling -her that it had been blessed by the Holy Father himself. Now she would -have a treasure to hide and guard, to adore while her watchers slept. -Ah, he thought, for one who cannot read--or think--the Image, the -physical form of Love! - -He fitted the great key into its lock, the door swung slowly back on its -wooden hinges. The peace without seemed all one with the peace in his -own soul. The snow had stopped, the gauzy clouds that had ribbed the -arch of heaven were now all sunk into one soft white fog bank over the -Sangre de Cristo mountains. The full moon shone high in the blue vault, -majestic, lonely, benign. The Bishop stood in the doorway of his church, -lost in thought, looking at the line of black footprints his departing -visitor had left in the wet scurf of snow. - - - - -3 - -SPRING IN THE NAVAJO COUNTRY - - -FATHER VAILLANT was away in Arizona all winter. When the first hint of -spring was in the air, the Bishop and Jacinto set out on a long ride -across New Mexico, to the Painted Desert and the Hopi villages. After -they left Oraibi, the Bishop rode several days to the south, to visit a -Navajo friend who had lately lost his only son, and who had paid the -Bishop the compliment of sending word of the boy's death to him at Santa -Fé. - -Father Latour had known Eusabio a long while, had met him soon after he -first came to his new diocese. The Navajo was in Santa Fé at that time, -assisting the military officers to quiet an outbreak of the never-ending -quarrel between his people and the Hopis. Ever since then the Bishop and -the Indian chief had entertained an increasing regard for each other. -Eusabio brought his son all the way to Santa Fé to have the Bishop -baptize him,--that one beloved son who had died during this last winter. - -Though he was ten years younger than Father Latour, Eusabio was one of -the most influential men among the Navajo people, and one of the richest -in sheep and horses. In Santa Fé and Albuquerque he was respected for -his intelligence and authority, and admired for his fine presence. He -was extremely tall, even for a Navajo, with a face like a Roman -general's of Republican times. He always dressed very elegantly in -velvet and buckskin rich with bead and quill embroidery, belted with -silver, and wore a blanket of the finest wool and design. His arms, -under the loose sleeves of his shirt, were covered with silver -bracelets, and on his breast hung very old necklaces of wampum and -turquoise and coral--Mediterranean coral, that had been left in the -Navajo country by Coronado's captains when they passed through it on -their way to discover the Hopi villages and the Grand Canyon. - -Eusabio lived, with his relatives and dependents, in a group of hogans -on the Colorado Chiquito; to the west and south and north his kinsmen -herded his great flocks. - -Father Latour and Jacinto arrived at the cluster of booth-like cabins -during a high sand-storm, which circled about them and their mules like -snow in a blizzard and all but obliterated the landscape. The Navajo -came out of his house and took possession of Angelica by her bridle-bit. -At first he did not open his lips, merely stood holding Father Latour's -very fine white hand in his very fine dark one, and looked into his face -with a message of sorrow and resignation in his deep-set, eagle eyes. A -wave of feeling passed over his bronze features as he said slowly: - -"My friend has come." - -That was all, but it was everything; welcome, confidence, appreciation. - -For his lodging the Bishop was given a solitary hogan, a little apart -from the settlement. Eusabio quickly furnished it with his best skins -and blankets, and told his guest that he must tarry a few days there and -recover from his fatigue. His mules were tired, the Indian said, the -Padre himself looked weary, and the way to Santa Fé was long. - -The Bishop thanked him and said he would stay three days; that he had -need for reflection. His mind had been taken up with practical matters -ever since he left home. This seemed a spot where a man might get his -thoughts together. The river, a considerable stream at this time of the -year, wound among mounds and dunes of loose sand which whirled through -the air all day in the boisterous spring winds. The sand banked up -against the hogan the Bishop occupied, and filtered through chinks in -the walls, which were made of saplings plastered with clay. - -Beside the river was a grove of tall, naked cottonwoods--trees of great -antiquity and enormous size--so large that they seemed to belong to a -bygone age. They grew far apart, and their strange twisted shapes must -have come about from the ceaseless winds that bent them to the east and -scoured them with sand, and from the fact that they lived with very -little water,--the river was nearly dry here for most of the year. The -trees rose out of the ground at a slant, and forty or fifty feet above -the earth all these white, dry trunks changed their direction, grew back -over their base line. Some split into great forks which arched down -almost to the ground; some did not fork at all, but the main trunk -dipped downward in a strong curve, as if drawn by a bowstring; and some -terminated in a thick coruscation of growth, like a crooked palm tree. -They were all living trees, yet they seemed to be of old, dead, dry -wood, and had very scant foliage. High up in the forks, or at the end of -a preposterous length of twisted bough, would burst a faint bouquet of -delicate green leaves--out of all keeping with the great lengths of -seasoned white trunk and branches. The grove looked like a winter wood -of giant trees, with clusters of mistletoe growing among the bare -boughs. - -Navajo hospitality is not intrusive. Eusabio made the Bishop understand -that he was glad to have him there, and let him alone. Father Latour -lived for three days in an almost perpetual sand-storm--cut off from -even this remote little Indian camp by moving walls and tapestries of -sand. He either sat in his house and listened to the wind, or walked -abroad under those aged, wind-distorted trees, muffled in an Indian -blanket, which he kept drawn up over his mouth and nose. Since his -arrival he had undertaken to decide whether he would be justified in -recalling Father Vaillant from Tucson. The Vicar's occasional letters, -brought by travellers, showed that he was highly content where he was, -restoring the old mission church of St. Xavier del Bac, which he -declared to be the most beautiful church on the continent, though it had -been neglected for more than two hundred years. - -Since Father Vaillant went away the Bishop's burdens had grown heavier -and heavier. The new priests from Auvergne were all good men, faithful -and untiring in carrying out his wishes; but they were still strangers -to the country, timid about making decisions, and referred every -difficulty to their Bishop. Father Latour needed his Vicar, who had so -much tact with the natives, so much sympathy with all their -short-comings. When they were together, he was always curbing Father -Vaillant's hopeful rashness--but left alone, he greatly missed that very -quality. And he missed Father Vaillant's companionship--why not admit -it? - -Although Jean Marie Latour and Joseph Vaillant were born in neighbouring -parishes in the Puy-de-Dôm, as children they had not known each other. -The Latours were an old family of scholars and professional men, while -the Vaillants were people of a much humbler station in the provincial -world. Besides, little Joseph had been away from home much of the time, -up on the farm in the Volvic mountains with his grandfather, where the -air was especially pure, and the country quiet salutary for a child of -nervous temperament. The two boys had not come together until they were -Seminarians at Montferrand, in Clermont. - -When Jean Marie was in his second year at the Seminary, he was standing -on the recreation ground one day at the opening of the term, looking -with curiosity at the new students. In the group, he noticed one of -peculiarly unpromising appearance; a boy of nineteen who was undersized, -very pale, homely in feature, with a wart on his chin and tow-coloured -hair that made him look like a German. This boy seemed to feel his -glance, and came up at once, as if he had been called. He was apparently -quite unconscious of his homeliness, was not at all shy, but intensely -interested in his new surroundings. He asked Jean Latour his name, where -he came from, and his father's occupation. Then he said with great -simplicity: - -"My father is a baker, the best in Riom. In fact, he's a remarkable -baker." - -Young Latour was amused, but expressed polite appreciation of this -confidence. The queer lad went on to tell him about his brother and his -aunt, and his clever little sister, Philomène. He asked how long Latour -had been at the Seminary. - -"Have you always intended to take orders? So have I, but I very nearly -went into the army instead." - -The year previous, after the surrender of Algiers, there had been a -military review at Clermont, a great display of uniforms and military -bands, and stirring speeches about the glory of French arms. Young -Joseph Vaillant had lost his head in the excitement, and had signed up -for a volunteer without consulting his father. He gave Latour a vivid -account of his patriotic emotions, of his father's displeasure, and his -own subsequent remorse. His mother had wished him to become a priest. -She died when he was thirteen, and ever since then he had meant to carry -out her wish and to dedicate his life to the service of the Divine -Mother. But that one day, among the bands and the uniforms, he had -forgotten everything but his desire to serve France. - -Suddenly young Vaillant broke off, saying that he must write a letter -before the hour was over, and tucking up his gown he ran away at full -speed. Latour stood looking after him, resolved that he would take this -new boy under his protection. There was something about the baker's son -that had given their meeting the colour of an adventure; he meant to -repeat it. In that first encounter, he chose the lively, ugly boy for -his friend. It was instantaneous. Latour himself was much cooler and -more critical in temper; hard to please, and often a little grey in -mood. - -During their Seminary years he had easily surpassed his friend in -scholarship, but he always realized that Joseph excelled him in the -fervour of his faith. After they became missionaries, Joseph had learned -to speak English, and later, Spanish, more readily than he. To be sure, -he spoke both languages very incorrectly at first, but he had no vanity -about grammar or refinement of phrase. To communicate with peons, he was -quite willing to speak like a peon. - -Though the Bishop had worked with Father Joseph for twenty-five years -now, he could not reconcile the contradictions of his nature. He simply -accepted them, and, when Joseph had been away for a long while, realized -that he loved them all. His Vicar was one of the most truly spiritual -men he had ever known, though he was so passionately attached to many of -the things of this world. Fond as he was of good eating and drinking, he -not only rigidly observed all the fasts of the Church, but he never -complained about the hardness and scantiness of the fare on his long -missionary journeys. Father Joseph's relish for good wine might have -been a fault in another man. But always frail in body, he seemed to need -some quick physical stimulant to support his sudden flights of purpose -and imagination. Time and again the Bishop had seen a good dinner, a -bottle of claret, transformed into spiritual energy under his very eyes. -From a little feast that would make other men heavy and desirous of -repose, Father Vaillant would rise up revived, and work for ten or -twelve hours with that ardour and thoroughness which accomplished such -lasting results. - -The Bishop had often been embarrassed by his Vicar's persistence in -begging for the parish, for the Cathedral fund and the distant missions. -Yet for himself, Father Joseph was scarcely acquisitive to the point of -decency. He owned nothing in the world but his mule, Contento. Though he -received rich vestments from his sister in Riom, his daily apparel was -rough and shabby. The Bishop had a large and valuable library, at least, -and many comforts for his house. There were his beautiful skins and -blankets--presents from Eusabio and his other Indian friends. The -Mexican women, skilled in needlework and lace-making and hem-stitching, -presented him with fine linen for his person, his bed, and his table. He -had silver plate, given him by the Olivares and others of his rich -parishioners. But Father Vaillant was like the saints of the early -Church, literally without personal possessions. - -In his youth, Joseph had wished to lead a life of seclusion and solitary -devotion; but the truth was, he could not be happy for long without -human intercourse. And he liked almost everyone. In Ohio, when they used -to travel together in stagecoaches, Father Latour had noticed that every -time a new passenger pushed his way into the already crowded stage, -Joseph would look pleased and interested, as if this were an agreeable -addition--whereas he himself felt annoyed, even if he concealed it. The -ugly conditions of life in Ohio had never troubled Joseph. The hideous -houses and churches, the ill-kept farms and gardens, the slovenly, -sordid aspect of the towns and country-side, which continually depressed -Father Latour, he seemed scarcely to perceive. One would have said he -had no feeling for comeliness or grace. Yet music was a passion with -him. In Sandusky it had been his delight to spend evening after evening -with his German choir-master, training the young people to sing Bach -oratorios. - -Nothing one could say of Father Vaillant explained him. The man was much -greater than the sum of his qualities. He added a glow to whatever kind -of human society he was dropped down into. A Navajo hogan, some abjectly -poor little huddle of Mexican huts, or a company of Monsignori and -Cardinals at Rome--it was all the same. - -The last time the Bishop was in Rome he had heard an amusing story from -Monsignor Mazzucchi, who had been secretary to Gregory XVI at the time -when Father Vaillant went from his Ohio mission for his first visit to -the Holy City. - -Joseph had stayed in Rome for three months, living on about forty cents -a day and leaving nothing unseen. He several times asked Mazzucchi to -secure him a private audience with the Pope. The secretary liked the -missionary from Ohio; there was something abrupt and lively and naïf -about him, a kind of freshness he did not often find in the priests who -flocked to Rome. So he arranged an interview at which only the Holy -Father and Father Vaillant and Mazzucchi were present. - -The missionary came in, attended by a chamberlain who carried two great -black valises full of objects to be blessed--instead of one, as was -customary. After his reception, Father Joseph began to pour out such a -vivid account of his missions and brother missionaries, that both the -Holy Father and the secretary forgot to take account of time, and the -audience lasted three times as long as such interviews were supposed to -last. Gregory XVI, that aristocratic and autocratic prelate, who stood -so consistently on the wrong side in European politics, and was the -enemy of Free Italy, had done more than any of his predecessors to -propagate the Faith in remote parts of the world. And here was a -missionary after his own heart. Father Vaillant asked for blessings for -himself, his fellow priests, his missions, his Bishop. He opened his big -valises like pedlars' packs, full of crosses, rosaries, prayer-books, -medals, breviaries, on which he begged more than the usual blessing. The -astonished chamberlain had come and gone several times, and Mazzucchi at -last reminded the Holy Father that he had other engagements. Father -Vaillant caught up his two valises himself, the chamberlain not being -there at the moment, and thus laden, was bowing himself backward out of -the presence, when the Pope rose from his chair and lifted his hand, not -in benediction but in salutation, and called out to the departing -missionary, as one man to another, "_Coraggio, Americano_!" - - -Bishop Latour found his Navajo house favourable for reflection, for -recalling the past and planning the future. He wrote long letters to his -brother and to old friends in France. The hogan was isolated like a -ship's cabin on the ocean, with the murmuring of great winds about it. -There was no opening except the door, always open, and the air without -had the turbid yellow light of sand-storms. All day long the sand came -in through the cracks in the walls and formed little ridges on the earth -floor. It rattled like sleet upon the dead leaves of the tree-branch -roof. This house was so frail a shelter that one seemed to be sitting in -the heart of a world made of dusty earth and moving air. - - - - -4 - -EUSABIO - - -ON the third day of his visit with Eusabio, the Bishop wrote a somewhat -formal letter of recall to his Vicar, and then went for his daily walk -in the desert. He stayed out until sunset, when the wind fell and the -air cleared, to a crystal sharpness. As he was returning, still a mile -or more up the river, he heard the deep sound of a cottonwood drum, -beaten softly. He surmised that the sound came from Eusabio's house, and -that his friend was at home. - -Retracing his steps to the settlement, Father Latour found Eusabio -seated beside his doorway, singing in the Navajo language and beating -softly on one end of his long drum. Before him two very little Indian -boys, about four and five years old, were dancing to the music, on the -hard beaten ground. Two women, Eusabio's wife and sister, looked on from -the deep twilight of the hut. - -The little boys did not notice the stranger's approach. They were -entirely engrossed in their occupation, their faces serious, their -chocolate-coloured eyes half closed. The Bishop stood watching the -flowing, supple movements of their arms and shoulders, the sure rhythm -of their tiny moccasined feet, no larger than cottonwood leaves, as -without a word of instruction they followed the irregular and -strangely-accented music. Eusabio himself wore an expression of -religious gravity. He sat with the drum between his knees, his broad -shoulders bent forward; a crimson _banda_ covered his forehead to hold -his black hair. The silver on his dark wrists glittered as he stroked -the drum-head with a stick or merely tapped it with his fingers. When he -finished the song he was singing, he rose and introduced the little -boys, his nephews, by their Indian names, Eagle Feather and Medicine -Mountain, after which he nodded to them in dismissal. They vanished into -the house. Eusabio handed the drum to his wife and walked away with his -guest. - -"Eusabio," said the Bishop, "I want to send a letter to Father Vaillant, -at Tucson. I will send Jacinto with it, provided you can spare me one of -your people to accompany me back to Santa Fé." - -"I myself will ride with you to the Villa," said Eusabio. The Navajos -still called the capital by its old name. - -Accordingly, on the following morning, Jacinto was dispatched southward, -and Father Latour and Eusabio, with their pack-mule, rode to the east. - -The ride back to Santa Fé was something under four hundred miles. The -weather alternated between blinding sand-storms and brilliant sunlight. -The sky was as full of motion and change as the desert beneath it was -monotonous and still,--and there was so much sky, more than at sea, more -than anywhere else in the world. The plain was there, under one's feet, -but what one saw when one looked about was that brilliant blue world of -stinging air and moving cloud. Even the mountains were mere ant-hills -under it. Elsewhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here the earth -was the floor of the sky. The landscape one longed for when one was far -away, the thing all about one, the world one actually lived in, was the -sky, the sky! - -Travelling with Eusabio was like travelling with the landscape made -human. He accepted chance and weather as the country did, with a sort of -grave enjoyment. He talked little, ate little, slept anywhere, preserved -a countenance open and warm, and like Jacinto he had unfailing good -manners. The Bishop was rather surprised that he stopped so often by the -way to gather flowers. One morning he came back with the mules, holding -a bunch of crimson flowers--long, tube-shaped bells, that hung lightly -from one side of a naked stem and trembled in the wind. - -"The Indians call rainbow flower," he said, holding them up and making -the red tubes quiver. "It is early for these." - -When they left the rock or tree or sand dune that had sheltered them for -the night, the Navajo was careful to obliterate every trace of their -temporary occupation. He buried the embers of the fire and the remnants -of food, unpiled any stones he had piled together, filled up the holes -he had scooped in the sand. Since this was exactly Jacinto's procedure, -Father Latour judged that, just as it was the white man's way to assert -himself in any landscape, to change it, make it over a little (at least -to leave some mark or memorial of his sojourn), it was the Indian's way -to pass through a country without disturbing anything; to pass and leave -no trace, like fish through the water, or birds through the air. - -It was the Indian manner to vanish into the landscape, not to stand out -against it. The Hopi villages that were set upon rock mesas, were made -to look like the rock on which they sat, were imperceptible at a -distance. The Navajo hogans, among the sand and willows, were made of -sand and willows. None of the pueblos would at that time admit glass -windows into their dwellings. The reflection of the sun on the glazing -was to them ugly and unnatural--even dangerous. Moreover, these Indians -disliked novelty and change. They came and went by the old paths worn -into the rock by the feet of their fathers, used the old natural -stairway of stone to climb to their mesa towns, carried water from the -old springs, even after white men had dug wells. - -In the working of silver or drilling of turquoise the Indians had -exhaustless patience; upon their blankets and belts and ceremonial robes -they lavished their skill and pains. But their conception of decoration -did not extend to the landscape. They seemed to have none of the -European's desire to "master" nature, to arrange and re-create. They -spent their ingenuity in the other direction; in accommodating -themselves to the scene in which they found themselves. This was not so -much from indolence, the Bishop thought, as from an inherited caution -and respect. It was as if the great country were asleep, and they wished -to carry on their lives without awakening it; or as if the spirits of -earth and air and water were things not to antagonize and arouse. When -they hunted, it was with the same discretion; an Indian hunt was never -a slaughter. They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they -irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The -land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not -attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it. - -As Father Latour and Eusabio approached Albuquerque, they occasionally -fell in with company; Indians going to and fro on the long winding -trails across the plain, or up into the Sandia mountains. They had all -of them the same quiet way of moving, whether their pace was swift or -slow, and the same unobtrusive demeanour: an Indian wrapped in his -bright blanket, seated upon his mule or walking beside it, moving -through the pale new-budding sage-brush, winding among the sand waves, -as if it were his business to pass unseen and unheard through a country -awakening with spring. - -North of Laguna two Zuñi runners sped by them, going somewhere east on -"Indian business." They saluted Eusabio by gestures with the open palm, -but did not stop. They coursed over the sand with the fleetness of young -antelope, their bodies disappearing and reappearing among the sand -dunes, like the shadows that eagles cast in their strong, unhurried -flight. - - - - -BOOK EIGHT - -_GOLD UNDER PIKE'S PEAK_ - - - - -1 - -CATHEDRAL - - -FATHER VAILLANT had been in Santa Fé nearly three weeks, and as yet -nothing had been revealed to him that warranted his Bishop in calling -him back from Tucson. One morning Fructosa came into the garden to tell -him that lunch would be earlier than usual, as the Bishop was going to -ride somewhere that afternoon. Half an hour later he joined his superior -in the dining-room. - -The Bishop seldom lunched alone. That was the hour when he could most -conveniently entertain a priest from one of the distant parishes, an -army officer, an American trader, a visitor from Old Mexico or -California. He had no parlour--his dining-room served that purpose. It -was long and cool, with windows only at the west end, opening into the -garden. The green jalousies let in a tempered light. Sunbeams played on -the white, rounded walls and twinkled on the glass and silver of the -sideboard. When Madame Olivares left Santa Fé to return to New Orleans -and sold her effects at auction, Father Latour bought her sideboard, and -the dining-table around which friends had so often gathered. Doña -Isabella gave him her silver coffee service and candelabra for -remembrance. They were the only ornaments of the severe and shadowy -room. - -The Bishop was already at his place when Father Joseph entered. -"Fructosa has told you why we are lunching early? We will take a ride -this afternoon. I have something to show you." - -"Very good. Perhaps you have noticed that I am a little restless. I -don't know when I have been two weeks out of the saddle before. When I -go to visit Contento in his stall, he looks at me reprovingly. He will -grow too fat." - -The Bishop smiled, with a shade of sarcasm on his upper lip. He knew his -Joseph. "Ah, well," he said carelessly, "a little rest will not hurt -him, after coming six hundred miles from Tucson. You can take him out -this afternoon, and I will ride Angelica." - -The two priests left Santa Fé a little after midday, riding west. The -Bishop did not disclose his objective, and the Vicar asked no questions. -Soon they left the wagon road and took a trail running straight south, -through an empty greasewood country sloping gradually in the direction -of the naked, blue Sandia mountains. - -At about four o'clock they came out upon a ridge high over the Rio -Grande valley. The trail dropped down a long decline at this point and -wound about the foot of the Sandias into Albuquerque, some sixty miles -away. This ridge was covered with cone-shaped, rocky hills, thinly clad -with piñons, and the rock was a curious shade of green, something -between sea-green and olive. The thin, pebbly earth, which was merely -the rock pulverized by weather, had the same green tint. Father Latour -rode to an isolated hill that beetled over the western edge of the -ridge, just where the trail descended. This hill stood up high and quite -alone, boldly facing the declining sun and the blue Sandias. As they -drew close to it, Father Vaillant noticed that on the western face the -earth had been scooped away, exposing a rugged wall of rock--not green -like the surrounding hills, but yellow, a strong golden ochre, very much -like the gold of the sunlight that was now beating upon it. Picks and -crowbars lay about, and fragments of stone, freshly broken off. - -"It is curious, is it not, to find one yellow hill among all these green -ones?" remarked the Bishop, stooping to pick up a piece of the stone. "I -have ridden over these hills in every direction, but this is the only -one of its kind." He stood regarding the chip of yellow rock that lay in -his palm. As he had a very special way of handling objects that were -sacred, he extended that manner to things which he considered beautiful. -After a moment of silence he looked up at the rugged wall, gleaming gold -above them. "That hill, _Blanchet_, is my Cathedral." - -Father Joseph looked at his Bishop, then at the cliff, blinking. -"_Vraiment_? Is the stone hard enough? A good colour, certainly; -something like the colonnade of St. Peter's." - -The Bishop smoothed the piece of rock with his thumb. "It is more like -something nearer home--I mean, nearer Clermont. When I look up at this -rock I can almost feel the Rhone behind me." - -"Ah, you mean the old Palace of the Popes, at Avignon! Yes, you are -right, it is very like. At this hour, it is like this." - -The Bishop sat down on a boulder, still looking up at the cliff. "It is -the stone I have always wanted, and I found it quite by chance. I was -coming back from Isleta. I had been to see old Padre Jesus when he was -dying. I had never come by this trail, but when I reached Santo Domingo -I found the road so washed by a heavy rain that I turned out and decided -to try this way home. I rode up here from the west in the late -afternoon; this hill confronted me as it confronts us now, and I knew -instantly that it was my Cathedral." - -"Oh, such things are never accidents, Jean. But it will be a long while -before you can think of building." - -"Not so very long, I hope. I should like to complete it before I die--if -God so wills. I wish to leave nothing to chance, or to the mercy of -American builders. I had rather keep the old adobe church we have now -than help to build one of those horrible structures they are putting up -in the Ohio cities. I want a plain church, but I want a good one. I -shall certainly never lift my hand to build a clumsy affair of red -brick, like an English coach-house. Our own Midi Romanesque is the right -style for this country." - -Father Vaillant sniffed and wiped his glasses. "If you once begin -thinking about architects and styles, Jean! And if you don't get -American builders, whom will you get, pray?" - -"I have an old friend in Toulouse who is a very fine architect. I talked -this matter over with him when I was last at home. He cannot come -himself; he is afraid of the long sea voyage, and not used to horseback -travel. But he has a young son, still at his studies, who is eager to -undertake the work. Indeed, his father writes me that it has become the -young man's dearest ambition to build the first Romanesque church in the -New World. He will have studied the right models; he thinks our old -churches of the Midi the most beautiful in France. When we are ready, he -will come and bring with him a couple of good French stone-cutters. They -will certainly be no more expensive than workmen from St. Louis. Now -that I have found exactly the stone I want, my Cathedral seems to me -already begun. This hill is only about fifteen miles from Santa Fé; -there is an up-grade, but it is gradual. Hauling the stone will be -easier than I could have hoped for." - -"You plan far ahead," Father Vaillant looked at his friend wonderingly. -"Well, that is what a Bishop should be able to do. As for me, I see only -what is under my nose. But I had no idea you were going in for fine -building, when everything about us is so poor--and we ourselves are so -poor." - -"But the Cathedral is not for us, Father Joseph. We build for the -future--better not lay a stone unless we can do that. It would be a -shame to any man coming from a Seminary that is one of the architectural -treasures of France, to make another ugly church on this continent where -there are so many already." - -"You are probably right. I had never thought of it before. It never -occurred to me that we could have anything but an Ohio church here. Your -ancestors helped to build Clermont Cathedral, I remember; two building -Bishops de la Tour back in the thirteenth century. Time brings things to -pass, certainly. I had no idea you were taking all this so much to -heart." - -Father Latour laughed. "Is a cathedral a thing to be taken lightly, -after all?" - -"Oh, no, certainly not!" Father Vaillant moved his shoulders uneasily. -He did not himself know why he hung back in this. - -The base of the hill before which they stood was already in shadow, -subdued to the tone of rich yellow clay, but the top was still melted -gold--a colour that throbbed in the last rays of the sun. The Bishop -turned away at last with a sigh of deep content. "Yes," he said slowly, -"that rock will do very well. And now we must be starting home. Every -time I come here, I like this stone better. I could hardly have hoped -that God would gratify my personal taste, my vanity, if you will, in -this way. I tell you, _Blanchet_, I would rather have found that hill of -yellow rock than have come into a fortune to spend in charity. The -Cathedral is near my heart, for many reasons. I hope you do not think me -very worldly." - -As they rode home through the sage-brush silvered by moonlight, Father -Vaillant was still wondering why he had been called home from saving -souls in Arizona, and wondering why a poor missionary Bishop should care -so much about a building. He himself was eager to have the Cathedral -begun; but whether it was Midi Romanesque or Ohio German in style, -seemed to him of little consequence. - - - - -2 - -A LETTER FROM LEAVENWORTH - - -THE day after the Bishop and his Vicar rode to the yellow rock the -weekly post arrived at Santa Fé. It brought the Bishop many letters, -and he was shut in his study all morning. At lunch he told Father -Vaillant that he would require his company that evening to consider with -him a letter of great importance from the Bishop of Leavenworth. - -This letter of many pages was concerned with events that were happening -in Colorado, in a part of the Rocky Mountains very little known. Though -it was only a few hundred miles north of Santa Fé, communication with -that region was so infrequent that news travelled to Santa Fé from -Europe more quickly than from Pike's Peak. Under the shadow of that peak -rich gold deposits had been discovered within the last year, but Father -Vaillant had first heard of this through a letter from France. Word of -it had reached the Atlantic coast, crossed to Europe, and come from -there back to the South-west, more quickly than it could filter down -through the few hundred miles of unexplored mountains and gorges between -Cripple Creek and Santa Fé. While Father Vaillant was at Tucson he had -received a letter from his brother Marius, in Auvergne, and was vexed -that so much of it was taken up with inquiries about the gold rush to -Colorado, of which he had never heard, while Marius gave him but little -news of the war in Italy, which seemed relatively near and much more -important. - -That congested heaping up of the Rocky Mountain chain about Pike's Peak -was a blank space on the continent at this time. Even the fur trappers, -coming down from Wyoming to Taos with their pelts, avoided that humped -granite backbone. Only a few years before, Frémont had tried to -penetrate the Colorado Rockies, and his party had come half-starved into -Taos at last, having eaten most of their horses. But within twelve -months everything had changed. Wandering prospectors had found large -deposits of gold near Cripple Creek, and the mountains that were -solitary a year ago were now full of people. Wagon trains were streaming -westward across the prairies from the Missouri River. - -The Bishop of Leavenworth wrote Father Latour that he himself had just -returned from a visit to Cripple Creek. He had found the slopes under -Pike's Peak dotted with camps, the gorges black with placer miners; -thousands of people were living in tents and shacks, Cherry Creek was -full of saloons and gambling-rooms; and among all the wanderers and -wastrels were many honest men, hundreds of good Catholics, and not one -priest. The young men were adrift in a lawless society without spiritual -guidance. The old men died from exposure and mountain pneumonia, with no -one to give them the last rites of the Church. - -This new and populous community must, for the present, the Kansas Bishop -wrote, be accounted under Father Latour's jurisdiction. His great -diocese, already enlarged by thousands of square miles to the south and -west, must now, on the north, take in the still undefined but suddenly -important region of the Colorado Rockies. The Bishop of Leavenworth -begged him to send a priest there as soon as possible,--an able one, by -all means, not only devoted, but resourceful and intelligent, one who -would be at his ease with all sorts of men. He must take his bedding and -camp outfit, medicines and provisions, and clothing for the severe -winter. At Camp Denver there was nothing to be bought but tobacco and -whisky. There were no women there, and no cook stoves. The miners lived -on half-baked dough and alcohol. They did not even keep the mountain -water pure, and so died of fever. All the living conditions were -abominable. - -In the evening, after dinner, Father Latour read this letter aloud to -Father Vaillant in his study. When he had finished, he put down the -closely written pages. - -"You have been complaining of inactivity, Father Joseph; here is your -opportunity." - -Father Joseph, who had been growing more and more restless during the -reading of the letter, said merely: "So now I must begin speaking -English again! I can start to-morrow if you wish it." - -The Bishop shook his head. "Not so fast. There will be no hospitable -Mexicans to receive you at the end of this journey. You must take your -living with you. We will have a wagon built for you, and choose your -outfit carefully. Tranquilino's brother, Sabino, will be your driver. -This, I fear, will be the hardest mission you have ever undertaken." - -The two priests talked until a late hour. There was Arizona to be -considered; somebody must be found to continue Father Vaillant's work -there. Of all the countries he knew, that desert and its yellow people -were the dearest to him. But it was the discipline of his life to break -ties; to say farewell and move on into the unknown. - -Before he went to bed that night Father Joseph greased his boots and -trimmed the calloused spots on his feet with an old razor. At the -Mexican village of Chimayo, over toward the Truchas mountains, the good -people were especially devoted to a little equestrian image of Santiago -in their church, and they made him a new pair of boots every few months, -insisting that he went abroad at night and wore out his shoes, even on -horseback. When Father Joseph stayed there, he used to tell them he -wished that, in addition to the consecration of the hands, God had -provided some special blessing for the missionary's feet. - -He recalled affectionately an incident which concerned this Santiago of -Chimayo. Some years ago Father Joseph was asked to go to the _calabozo_ -at Santa Fé to see a murderer from Chimayo. The prisoner proved to be a -boy of twenty, very gentle in face and manner. His name was Ramon -Armajillo. He had been passionately fond of cock-fighting, and it was -his undoing. He had bred a rooster that never lost a battle, but had -slit the necks of cocks in all the little towns about. At last Ramon -brought the bird to Santa Fé to match him with a famous cock there, and -half a dozen Chimayo boys came along and put up everything they had on -Ramon's rooster. The betting was heavy on both sides, and the gate -receipts also were to go to the winner. After a somewhat doubtful -beginning, Ramon's cock neatly ripped the jugular vein of his opponent; -but the owner of the defeated bird, before anyone could stop him, -reached into the ring and wrung the victor's neck. Before he had dropped -the limp bunch of feathers from his hand, Ramon's knife was in his -heart. It all happened in a flash--some of the witnesses even insisted -that the death of the man and the death of the cock were simultaneous. -All agreed that there was not time for a man to catch his breath between -the whirl of the wrist and the gleam of the knife. Unfortunately the -American judge was a very stupid man, who disliked Mexicans and hoped to -wipe out cock-fighting. He accepted as evidence statements made by the -murdered man's friends to the effect that Ramon had repeatedly -threatened his life. - -When Father Vaillant went to see the boy in his cell a few days before -his execution, he found him making a pair of tiny buckskin boots, as if -for a doll, and Ramon told him they were for the little Santiago in the -church at home. His family would come up to Santa Fé for the hanging, -and they would take the boots back to Chimayo, and perhaps the little -saint would say a good word for him. - -Rubbing oil into his boots by candlelight, Father Vaillant sighed. The -criminals with whom he would have to do in Colorado would hardly be of -that type, he told himself. - - - - -3 - -AUSPICE MARIA! - - -THE construction of Father Vaillant's wagon took a month. It must be a -wagon of very unusual design, capable of carrying a great deal, yet -light enough and narrow enough to wind through the mountain gorges -beyond Pueblo,--where there were no roads at all except the rocky -ravines cut out by streams that flowed full in the spring but would be -dry now in the autumn. While his wagon was building, Father Joseph was -carefully selecting his stores, and the furnishings for a small chapel -which he meant to construct of saplings or canvas immediately upon his -arrival at Camp Denver. Moreover, there were his valises full of medals, -crosses, rosaries, coloured pictures and religious pamphlets. For -himself, he required no books but his breviary and the ordinary of the -Mass. - -In the Bishop's courtyard he sorted and re-sorted his cargo, always -finding a more necessary article for which a less necessary had to be -discarded. Fructosa and Magdalena were frequently called upon to help -him, and when a box was finally closed, Fructosa had it put away in the -woodshed. She had noticed the Bishop's brows contract slightly when he -came upon these trunks and chests in his hallway and dining-room. All -the bedding and clothing was packed in great sacks of dressed calfskin, -which Sabino procured from old Mexican settlers. These were already -going out of fashion, but in the early days they were the poor man's -trunk. - -Bishop Latour also was very busy at this time, training a new priest -from Clermont; riding about with him among the distant parishes and -trying to give him an understanding of the people. As a Bishop, he could -only approve Father Vaillant's eagerness to be gone, and the enthusiasm -with which he turned to hardships of a new kind. But as a man, he was a -little hurt that his old comrade should leave him without one regret. He -seemed to know, as if it had been revealed to him, that this was a final -break; that their lives would part here, and that they would never work -together again. The bustle of preparation in his own house was painful -to him, and he was glad to be abroad among the parishes. - -One day when the Bishop had just returned from Albuquerque, Father -Vaillant came in to luncheon in high spirits. He had been out for a -drive in his new wagon, and declared that it was satisfactory at last. -Sabino was ready, and he thought they would start the day after -to-morrow. He diagrammed his route on the table-cloth, and went over the -catalogue of his equipment. The Bishop was tired and scarcely touched -his food, but Father Joseph ate generously, as he was apt to do when -fired by a new project. - -After Fructosa had brought the coffee, he leaned back in his chair and -turned to his friend with a beaming face. "I often think, Jean, how you -were an unconscious agent in the hands of Providence when you recalled -me from Tucson. I seemed to be doing the most important work of my life -there, and you recalled me for no reason at all, apparently. You did not -know why, and I did not know why. We were both acting in the dark. But -Heaven knew what was happening at Cripple Creek, and moved us like -chessmen on the board. When the call came, I was here to answer it--by a -miracle, indeed." - -Father Latour put down his silver coffee-cup. "Miracles are all very -well, Joseph, but I see none here. I sent for you because I felt the -need of your companionship. I used my authority as a Bishop to gratify -my personal wish. That was selfish, if you will, but surely natural -enough. We are countrymen, and are bound by early memories. And that two -friends, having come together, should part and go their separate -ways--that is natural, too. No, I don't think we need any miracle to -explain all this." - -Father Vaillant had been wholly absorbed in his preparations for saving -souls in the gold camps--blind to everything else. Now it came over him -in a flash, how the Bishop had held himself aloof from his activities; -it was a very hard thing for Father Latour to let him go; the loneliness -of his position had begun to weigh upon him. - -Yes, he reflected, as he went quietly to his own room, there was a great -difference in their natures. Wherever he went, he soon made friends that -took the place of country and family. But Jean, who was at ease in any -society and always the flower of courtesy, could not form new ties. It -had always been so. He was like that even as a boy; gracious to -everyone, but known to a very few. To man's wisdom it would have seemed -that a priest with Father Latour's exceptional qualities would have been -better placed in some part of the world where scholarship, a handsome -person, and delicate perceptions all have their effect; and that a man -of much rougher type would have served God well enough as the first -Bishop of New Mexico. Doubtless Bishop Latour's successors would be men -of a different fibre. But God had his reasons, Father Joseph devoutly -believed. Perhaps it pleased Him to grace the beginning of a new era and -a vast new diocese by a fine personality. And perhaps, after all, -something would remain through the years to come; some ideal, or memory, -or legend. - -The next afternoon, his wagon loaded and standing ready in the -courtyard, Father Vaillant was seated at the Bishop's desk, writing -letters to France; a short one to Marius, a long one to his beloved -Philomène, telling her of his plunge into the unknown and begging her -prayers for his success in the world of gold-crazed men. He wrote -rapidly and jerkily, moving his lips as well as his fingers. When the -Bishop entered the study, he rose and stood holding the written pages in -his hand. - -"I did not mean to interrupt you, Joseph, but do you intend to take -Contento with you to Colorado?" - -Father Joseph blinked. "Why, certainly. I had intended to ride him. -However, if you have need for him here----" - -"Oh, no. Not at all. But if you take Contento, I will ask you to take -Angelica as well. They have a great affection for each other; why -separate them indefinitely? One could not explain to them. They have -worked long together." - -Father Vaillant made no reply. He stood looking intently at the pages of -his letter. The Bishop saw a drop of water splash down upon the violet -script and spread. He turned quickly and went out through the arched -doorway. - - -At sunrise next morning Father Vaillant set out, Sabino driving the -wagon, his oldest boy riding Angelica, and Father Joseph himself riding -Contento. They took the old road to the north-east, through the sharp -red sand-hills spotted with juniper, and the Bishop accompanied them as -far as the loop where the road wound out on the top of one of those -conical hills, giving the departing traveller his last glimpse of Santa -Fé. There Father Joseph drew rein and looked back at the town lying -rosy in the morning light, the mountain behind it, and the hills close -about it like two encircling arms. - -"_Auspice, Maria_!" he murmured as he turned his back on these familiar -things. - -The Bishop rode home to his solitude. He was forty-seven years old, and -he had been a missionary in the New World for twenty years--ten of them -in New Mexico. If he were a parish priest at home, there would be -nephews coming to him for help in their Latin or a bit of pocket-money; -nieces to run into his garden and bring their sewing and keep an eye on -his housekeeping. All the way home he indulged in such reflections as -any bachelor nearing fifty might have. - -But when he entered his study, he seemed to come back to reality, to the -sense of a Presence awaiting him. The curtain of the arched doorway had -scarcely fallen behind him when that feeling of personal loneliness was -gone, and a sense of loss was replaced by a sense of restoration. He sat -down before his desk, deep in reflection. It was just this solitariness -of love in which a priest's life could be like his Master's. It was not -a solitude of atrophy, of negation, but of perpetual flowering. A life -need not be cold, or devoid of grace in the worldly sense, if it were -filled by Her who was all the graces; Virgin-daughter, Virgin-mother, -girl of the people and Queen of Heaven: _le rêve suprême de la chair_. -The nursery tale could not vie with Her in simplicity, the wisest -theologians could not match Her in profundity. - -Here in his own church in Santa Fé there was one of these nursery -Virgins, a little wooden figure, very old and very dear to the people. -De Vargas, when he recaptured the city for Spain two hundred years ago, -had vowed a yearly procession in her honour, and it was still one of the -most solemn events of the Christian year in Santa Fé. She was a little -wooden figure, about three feet high, very stately in bearing, with a -beautiful though rather severe Spanish face. She had a rich wardrobe; a -chest full of robes and laces, and gold and silver diadems. The women -loved to sew for her and the silversmiths to make her chains and -brooches. Father Latour had delighted her wardrobe keepers when he told -them he did not believe the Queen of England or the Empress of France -had so many costumes. She was their doll and their queen, something to -fondle and something to adore, as Mary's Son must have been to Her. - -These poor Mexicans, he reflected, were not the first to pour out their -love in this simple fashion. Raphael and Titian had made costumes for -Her in their time, and the great masters had made music for Her, and the -great architects had built cathedrals for Her. Long before Her years on -earth, in the long twilight between the Fall and the Redemption, the -pagan sculptors were always trying to achieve the image of a goddess who -should yet be a woman. - - -Bishop Latour's premonition was right: Father Vaillant never returned to -share his work in New Mexico. Come back he did, to visit his old -friends, whenever his busy life permitted. But his destiny was fulfilled -in the cold, steely Colorado Rockies, which he never loved as he did the -blue mountains of the South. He came back to Santa Fé to recuperate -from the illnesses and accidents which consistently punctuated his way; -came with the Papal Emissary when Bishop Latour was made Archbishop; but -his working life was spent among bleak mountains and comfortless mining -camps, looking after lost sheep. - -Creede, Durango, Silver City, Central City, over the Continental Divide -into Utah,--his strange Episcopal carriage was known throughout that -rugged granite world. - -It was a covered carriage, on springs, and long enough for him to lie -down in at night,--Father Joseph was a very short man. At the back was a -luggage box, which could be made into an altar when he celebrated Mass -in the open, under a pine tree. He used to say that the mountain -torrents were the first road builders, and that wherever they found a -way, he could find one. He wore out driver after driver, and his coach -was repaired so often and so extensively that long before he abandoned -it there was none of the original structure left. - -Broken tongues and singletrees, smashed wheels and splintered axles he -considered trifling matters. Twice the old carriage itself slipped off -the mountain road and rolled down the gorge, with the priest inside. -From the first accident of this kind, Father Vaillant escaped with -nothing worse than a sprain, and he wrote Bishop Latour that he -attributed his preservation to the Archangel Raphael, whose office he -had said with unusual fervour that morning. The second time he rolled -down a ravine, near Central City, his thigh-bone was broken just below -the joint. It knitted in time, but he was lamed for life, and could -never ride horseback again. - -Before this accident befell him, however, he had one long visit among -his friends in Santa Fé and Albuquerque, a renewal of old ties that was -like an Indian summer in his life. When he left Denver, he told his -congregation there that he was going to the Mexicans to beg for money. -The church in Denver was under a roof, but the windows had been boarded -up for months because nobody would buy glass for them. In his Denver -congregation there were men who owned mines and saw-mills and -flourishing businesses, but they needed all their money to push these -enterprises. Down among the Mexicans, who owned nothing but a mud house -and a burro, he could always raise money. If they had anything at all, -they gave. - -He called this trip frankly a begging expedition, and he went in his -carriage to bring back whatever he could gather. When he got as far as -Taos, his Irish driver mutinied. Not another mile over these roads, he -said. He knew his own territory, but here he refused to risk his neck -and the Padre's. There was then no wagon road from Taos to Santa Fé. It -was nearly a fortnight before Father Vaillant found a man who would -undertake to get him through the mountains. At last an old driver, -schooled on the wagon trains, volunteered; and with the help of ax and -pick and shovel, he brought the Episcopal carriage safely to Santa Fé -and into the Bishop's courtyard. - -Once again among his own people, as he still called them, Father Joseph -opened his campaign, and the poor Mexicans began taking dollars out of -their shirts and boots (favourite places for carrying money) to pay for -windows in the Denver church. His petitions did not stop with -windows--indeed, they only began there. He told the sympathetic women of -Santa Fé and Albuquerque about all the stupid, unnecessary discomforts -of his life in Denver, discomforts that amounted to improprieties. It -was a part of the Wild West attitude to despise the decencies of life. -He told them how glad he was to sleep in good Mexican beds once more. In -Denver he lay on a mattress stuffed with straw; a French priest who was -visiting him had pulled out a long stem of hay that stuck through the -thin ticking, and called it an American feather. His dining-table was -made of planks covered with oilcloth. He had no linen at all, neither -sheets nor serviettes, and he used his wornout shirts for face towels. -The Mexican women could scarcely bear to hear of such things. Nobody in -Colorado planted gardens, Father Vaillant related; nobody would stick a -shovel into the earth for anything less than gold. There was no butter, -no milk, no eggs, no fruit. He lived on dough and cured hog meat. - -Within a few weeks after his arrival, six featherbeds were sent to the -Bishop's house for Father Vaillant; dozens of linen sheets, embroidered -pillowcases and table-cloths and napkins; strings of chili and boxes of -beans and dried fruit. The little settlement of Chimayo sent a roll of -their finest blankets. - -As these gifts arrived, Father Joseph put them in the woodhouse, knowing -well that the Bishop was always embarrassed by his readiness to receive -presents. But one morning Father Latour had occasion to go into the -woodhouse, and he saw for himself. - -"Father Joseph," he remonstrated, "you will never be able to take all -these things back to Denver. Why, you would need an ox-cart to carry -them!" - -"Very well," replied Father Joseph, "then God will send me an ox-cart." - -And He did, with a driver to take the cart as far as Pueblo. - -On the morning of his departure for home, when his carriage was ready, -the cart covered with tarpaulins and the oxen yoked, Father Vaillant, -who had been hurrying everyone since the first streak of light, suddenly -became deliberate. He went into the Bishop's study and sat down, talking -to him of unimportant matters, lingering as if there were something -still undone. - -"Well, we are getting older, Jean," he said abruptly, after a short -silence. - -The Bishop smiled. "Ah, yes. We are not young men any more. One of these -departures will be the last." - -Father Vaillant nodded. "Whenever God wills. I am ready." He rose and -began to pace the floor, addressing his friend without looking at him. -"But it has not been so bad, Jean? We have done the things we used to -plan to do, long ago, when we were Seminarians,--at least some of them. -To fulfil the dreams of one's youth; that is the best that can happen to -a man. No worldly success can take the place of that." - -"_Blanchet_," said the Bishop rising, "you are a better man than I. You -have been a great harvester of souls, without pride and without -shame--and I am always a little cold--_un pédant_, as you used to say. -If hereafter we have stars in our crowns, yours will be a constellation. -Give me your blessing." - -He knelt, and Father Vaillant, having blessed him, knelt and was blessed -in turn. They embraced each other for the past--for the future. - - - - -BOOK NINE - -_DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP_ - - - - -1 - - -WHEN that devout nun, Mother Superior Philomène, died at a great age in -her native Riom, among her papers were found several letters from -Archbishop Latour, one dated December 1888, only a few months before his -death. "Since your brother was called to his reward," he wrote, "I feel -nearer to him than before. For many years Duty separated us, but death -has brought us together. The time is not far distant when I shall join -him. Meanwhile, I am enjoying to the full that period of reflection -which is the happiest conclusion to a life of action." - -This period of reflection the Archbishop spent on his little country -estate, some four miles north of Santa Fé. Long before his retirement -from the cares of the diocese, Father Latour bought those few acres in -the red sand-hills near the Tesuque pueblo, and set out an orchard which -would be bearing when the time came for him to rest. He chose this place -in the red hills spotted with juniper against the advice of his friends, -because he believed it to be admirably suited for the growing of fruit. - -Once when he was riding out to visit the Tesuque mission, he had -followed a stream and come upon this spot, where he found a little -Mexican house and a garden shaded by an apricot tree of such great size -as he had never seen before. It had two trunks, each of them thicker -than a man's body, and though evidently very old, it was full of fruit. -The apricots were large, beautifully coloured, and of superb flavour. -Since this tree grew against the hill-side, the Archbishop concluded that -the exposure there must be excellent for fruit. He surmised that the -heat of the sun, reflected from the rocky hill-slope up into the tree, -gave the fruit an even temperature, warmth from two sides, such as -brings the wall peaches to perfection in France. - -The old Mexican who lived there said the tree must be two hundred years -old; it had been just like this when his grandfather was a boy, and had -always borne luscious apricots like these. The old man would be glad to -sell the place and move into Santa Fé, the Bishop found, and he bought -it a few weeks later. In the spring he set out his orchard and a few -rows of acacia trees. Some years afterward he built a little adobe -house, with a chapel, high up on the hill-side overlooking the orchard. -Thither he used to go for rest and at seasons of special devotion. After -his retirement, he went there to live, though he always kept his study -unchanged in the house of the new Archbishop. - - -In his retirement Father Latour's principal work was the training of the -new missionary priests who arrived from France. His successor, the -second Archbishop, was also an Auvergnat, from Father Latour's own -college, and the clergy of northern New Mexico remained predominantly -French. When a company of new priests arrived (they never came singly) -Archbishop S---- sent them out to stay with Father Latour for a few -months, to receive instruction in Spanish, in the topography of the -diocese, in the character and traditions of the different pueblos. - -Father Latour's recreation was his garden. He grew such fruit as was -hardly to be found even in the old orchards of California; cherries and -apricots, apples and quinces, and the peerless pears of France--even the -most delicate varieties. He urged the new priests to plant fruit trees -wherever they went, and to encourage the Mexicans to add fruit to their -starchy diet. Wherever there was a French priest, there should be a -garden of fruit trees and vegetables and flowers. He often quoted to his -students that passage from their fellow Auvergnat, Pascal: that Man was -lost and saved in a garden. - -He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one -hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats -over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle -thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of -Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full -of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost -pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple--the true Episcopal -colour and countless variations of it. - -In the year 1885 there came to New Mexico a young Seminarian, Bernard -Ducrot, who became like a son to Father Latour. The story of the old -Archbishop's life, often told in the cloisters and class-rooms at -Montferrand, had taken hold of this boy's imagination, and he had long -waited an opportunity to come. Bernard was handsome in person and of -unusual mentality, had in himself the fineness to reverence all that was -fine in his venerable Superior. He anticipated Father Latour's every -wish, shared his reflections, cherished his reminiscences. - -"Surely," the Bishop used to say to the priests, "God himself has sent -me this young man to help me through the last years." - - - - -2 - - -THROUGHOUT the autumn of the year '88 the Bishop was in good health. He -had five French priests in his house, and he still rode abroad with them -to visit the nearer missions. On Christmas eve, he performed the -midnight Mass in the Cathedral at Santa Fé. In January he drove with -Bernard to Santa Cruz to see the resident priest, who was ill. While -they were on their way home the weather suddenly changed, and a violent -rain-storm overtook them. They were in an open buggy and were drenched -to the skin before they could reach any Mexican house for shelter. - -After arriving home, Father Latour went at once to bed. During the night -he slept badly and felt feverish. He called none of his household, but -arose at the usual hour before dawn and went into the chapel for his -devotions. While he was at prayer, he was seized with a chill. He made -his way to the kitchen, and his old cook, Fructosa, alarmed at once, put -him to bed and gave him brandy. This chill left him feverish, and he -developed a distressing cough. - -After keeping quietly to his bed for a few days, the Bishop called young -Bernard to him one morning and said: - -"Bernard, will you ride into Santa Fé to-day and see the Archbishop for -me. Ask him whether it will be quite convenient if I return to occupy my -study in his house for a short time. _Je voudrais mourir à Santa Fé_." - -"I will go at once, Father. But you should not be discouraged; one does -not die of a cold." - -The old man smiled. "I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of -having lived." - -From that moment on, he spoke only French to those about him, and this -sudden relaxing of his rule alarmed his household more than anything -else about his condition. When a priest had received bad news from home, -or was ill, Father Latour would converse with him in his own language; -but at other times he required that all conversation in his house should -be in Spanish or English. - -Bernard returned that afternoon to say that the Archbishop would be -delighted if Father Latour would remain the rest of the winter with him. -Magdalena had already begun to air his study and put it in order, and -she would be in special attendance upon him during his visit. The -Archbishop would send his new carriage to fetch him, as Father Latour -had only an open buggy. - -"Not to-day, _mon fils_," said the Bishop. "We will choose a day when I -am feeling stronger; a fair day, when we can go in my own buggy, and you -can drive me. I wish to go late in the afternoon, toward sunset." - -Bernard understood. He knew that once, long ago, at that hour of the -day, a young Bishop had ridden along the Albuquerque road and seen Santa -Fé for the first time... And often, when they were driving into town -together, the Bishop had paused with Bernard on that hill-top from which -Father Vaillant had looked back on Santa Fé, when he went away to -Colorado to begin the work that had taken the rest of his life and made -him, too, a Bishop in the end. - -The old town was better to look at in those days, Father Latour used to -tell Bernard with a sigh. In the old days it had an individuality, a -style of its own; a tawny adobe town with a few green trees, set in a -half-circle of carnelian-coloured hills; that and no more. But the year -1880 had begun a period of incongruous American building. Now, half the -plaza square was still adobe, and half was flimsy wooden buildings with -double porches, scroll-work and jackstraw posts and banisters painted -white. Father Latour said the wooden houses which had so distressed him -in Ohio, had followed him. All this was quite wrong for the Cathedral -he had been so many years in building,--the Cathedral that had taken -Father Vaillant's place in his life after that remarkable man went away. - -Father Latour made his last entry into Santa Fé at the end of a -brilliant February afternoon; Bernard stopped the horses at the foot of -the long street to await the sunset. - -Wrapped in his Indian blankets, the old Archbishop sat for a long while, -looking at the open, golden face of his Cathedral. How exactly young -Molny, his French architect, had done what he wanted! Nothing -sensational, simply honest building and good stone-cutting,--good Midi -Romanesque of the plainest. And even now, in winter, when the acacia -trees before the door were bare, how it was of the South, that church, -how it sounded the note of the South! - -No one but Molny and the Bishop had ever seemed to enjoy the beautiful -site of that building,--perhaps no one ever would. But these two had -spent many an hour admiring it. The steep carnelian hills drew up so -close behind the church that the individual pine trees thinly wooding -their slopes were clearly visible. From the end of the street where the -Bishop's buggy stood, the tawny church seemed to start directly out of -those rose-coloured hills--with a purpose so strong that it was like -action. Seen from this distance, the Cathedral lay against the -pinesplashed slopes as against a curtain. When Bernard drove slowly -nearer, the backbone of the hills sank gradually, and the towers rose -clear into the blue air, while the body of the church still lay against -the mountain. - -The young architect used to tell the Bishop that only in Italy, or in -the opera, did churches leap out of mountains and black pines like that. -More than once Molny had called the Bishop from his study to look at the -unfinished building when a storm was coming up; then the sky above the -mountain grew black, and the carnelian rocks became an intense lavender, -all their pine trees strokes of dark purple; the hills drew nearer, the -whole background approached like a dark threat. - -"Setting," Molny used to tell Father Latour, "is accident. Either a -building is a part of a place, or it is not. Once that kinship is there, -time will only make it stronger." - -The Bishop was recalling this saying of Molny's when a voice out of the -present sounded in his ear. It was Bernard. - -"A fine sunset, Father. See how red the mountains are growing; Sangre de -Cristo." - -Yes, Sangre de Cristo; but no matter how scarlet the sunset, those red -hills never became vermilion, but a more and more intense rose-carnelian; -not the colour of living blood, the Bishop had often reflected, but the -colour of the dried blood of saints and martyrs preserved in old -churches in Rome, which liquefies upon occasion. - - - - -3 - - -THE next morning Father Latour wakened with a grateful sense of nearness -to his Cathedral--which would also be his tomb. He felt safe under its -shadow; like a boat come back to harbour, lying under its own sea-wall. -He was in his old study; the Sisters had sent a little iron bed from the -school for him, and their finest linen and blankets. He felt a great -content at being here, where he had come as a young man and where he had -done his work. The room was little changed; the same rugs and skins on -the earth floor, the same desk with his candlesticks, the same thick, -wavy white walls that muted sound, that shut out the world and gave -repose to the spirit. - -As the darkness faded into the grey of a winter morning, he listened for -the church bells,--and for another sound, that always amused him here; -the whistle of a locomotive. Yes, he had come with the buffalo, and he -had lived to see railway trains running into Santa Fé. He had -accomplished an historic period. - -All his relatives at home, and his friends in New Mexico, had expected -that the old Archbishop would spend his closing years in France, -probably in Clermont, where he could occupy a chair in his old college. -That seemed the natural thing to do, and he had given it grave -consideration. He had half expected to make some such arrangement the -last time he was in Auvergne, just before his retirement from his duties -as Archbishop. But in the Old World he found himself homesick for the -New. It was a feeling he could not explain; a feeling that old age did -not weigh so heavily upon a man in New Mexico as in the Puy-de-Dôm. - -He loved the towering peaks of his native mountains, the comeliness of -the villages, the cleanness of the country-side, the beautiful lines and -the cloisters of his own college. Clermont was beautiful,--but he found -himself sad there; his heart lay like a stone in his breast. There was -too much past, perhaps... When the summer wind stirred the lilacs in the -old gardens and shook down the blooms of the horsechestnuts, he -sometimes closed his eyes and thought of the high song the wind was -singing in the straight, striped pine trees up in the Navajo forests. - -During the day his nostalgia wore off, and by dinner-time it was quite -gone. He enjoyed his dinner and his wine, and the company of cultivated -men, and usually retired in good spirits. It was in the early morning -that he felt the ache in his breast; it had something to do with waking -in the early morning. It seemed to him that the grey dawn lasted so long -here, the country was a long while in coming to life. The gardens and -the fields were damp, heavy-mists hung in the valley and obscured the -mountains; hours went by before the sun could disperse those vapours and -warm and purify the villages. - -In New Mexico he always awoke a young man; not until he rose and began -to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first -consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through the -windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sagebrush and sweet clover; a -wind that made one's body feel light and one's heart cry "To-day, -to-day," like a child's. - -Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble -women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those -light-hearted mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy -again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new -countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear -harvests. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open -range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had -quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of -plowed land, the heaviness of labour and growth and grain-bearing, -utterly destroyed it; one could breathe that only on the bright edges of -the world, on the great grass plains or the sage-brush desert. - -That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long -after his day. He did not know just when it had become so necessary to -him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it. Something -soft and wild and free, something that whispered to the ear on the -pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the -bolts, and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the -blue and gold, into the morning, into the morning! - - - - -4 - - -FATHER LATOUR arranged an order for his last days; if routine was -necessary to him in health, it was even more so in sickness. Early in -the morning Bernard came with hot water, shaved him, and helped him to -bathe. They had brought nothing in from the country with them but -clothing and linen, and the silver toilet articles the Olivares had -given the Bishop so long ago; these thirty years he had washed his hands -in that hammered basin. Morning prayers over, Magdalena came with his -breakfast, and he sat in his easy-chair while she made his bed and -arranged his room. Then he was ready to see visitors. The Archbishop -came in for a few moments, when he was at home; the Mother Superior, the -American doctor. Bernard read aloud to him the rest of the morning; St. -Augustine, or the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or his favourite -Pascal. - -Sometimes, in the morning hours, he dictated to his young disciple -certain facts about the old missions in the diocese; facts which he had -come upon by chance and feared would be forgotten. He wished he could do -this systematically, but he had not the strength. Those truths and -fancies relating to a bygone time would probably be lost; the old -legends and customs and superstitions were already dying out. He wished -now that long ago he had had the leisure to write them down, that he -could have arrested their flight by throwing about them the light and -elastic mesh of the French tongue. - -He had, indeed, for years, directed the thoughts of the young priests -whom he instructed to the fortitude and devotion of those first -missionaries, the Spanish friars; declaring that his own life, when he -first came to New Mexico, was one of ease and comfort compared with -theirs. If he had used to be abroad for weeks together on short rations, -sleeping in the open, unable to keep his body clean, at least he had the -sense of being in a friendly world, where by every man's fireside a -welcome awaited him. - -But the Spanish Fathers who came up to Zuñi, then went north to the -Navajos, west to the Hopis, east to all the pueblos scattered between -Albuquerque and Taos, they came into a hostile country, carrying little -provisionment but their breviary and crucifix. When their mules were -stolen by Indians, as often happened, they proceeded on foot, without a -change of raiment, without food or water. A European could scarcely -imagine such hardships. The old countries were worn to the shape of -human life, made into an investiture, a sort of second body, for man. -There the wild herbs and the wild fruits and the forest fungi were -edible. The streams were sweet water, the trees afforded shade and -shelter. But in the alkali deserts the water holes were poisonous, and -the vegetation offered nothing to a starving man. Everything was dry, -prickly, sharp; Spanish bayonet, juniper, greasewood, cactus; the -lizard, the rattlesnake,--and man made cruel by a cruel life. Those -early missionaries threw themselves naked upon the hard heart of a -country that was calculated to try the endurance of giants. They -thirsted in its deserts, starved among its rocks, climbed up and down -its terrible canyons on stone-bruised feet, broke long fasts by unclean -and repugnant food. Surely these endured _Hunger_, _Thirst_, _Cold_, -_Nakedness_, of a kind beyond any conception St. Paul and his brethren -could have had. Whatever the early Christians suffered, it all happened -in that safe little Mediterranean world, amid the old manners, the old -landmarks. If they endured martyrdom, they died among their brethren, -their relics were piously preserved, their names lived in the mouths of -holy men. - -Riding with his Auvergnats to the old missions that had been scenes of -martyrdom, the Bishop used to remind them that no man could know what -triumphs of faith had happened there, where one white man met torture -and death alone among so many infidels, or what visions and revelations -God may have granted to soften that brutal end. - -When, as a young man, Father Latour first went down into Old Mexico, to -claim his See at the hands of the Bishop of Durango, he had met on his -journey priests from the missions of Sonora and Lower California, who -related many stories of the blessed experiences of the early Franciscan -missionaries. Their way through the wilderness had blossomed with little -miracles, it seemed. At one time, when the renowned Father Junípero -Serra, and his two companions, were in danger of their lives from trying -to cross a river at a treacherous point, a mysterious stranger appeared -out of the rocks on the opposite shore, and calling to them in Spanish, -told them to follow him to a point farther up the stream, where they -forded in safety. When they begged to know his name, he evaded them and -disappeared. At another time, they were traversing a great plain, and -were famished for water and almost spent; a young horseman overtook them -and gave them three ripe pomegranates, then galloped away. This fruit -not only quenched their thirst, but revived and strengthened them as -much as the most nourishing food could have done, and they completed -their journey like fresh men. - -One night in his travels through Durango, Father Latour was entertained -at a great country estate where the resident chaplain happened to be a -priest from one of the western missions; and he told a story of this -same Father Junípero which had come down in his own monastery from the -old times. - -Father Junípero, he said, with a single companion, had once arrived at -his monastery on foot, without provisions. The Brothers had welcomed the -two in astonishment, believing it impossible that men could have crossed -so great a stretch of desert in this naked fashion. The Superior -questioned them as to whence they had come, and said the mission should -not have allowed them to set off without a guide and without food. He -marvelled how they could have got through alive. But Father Junípero -replied that they had fared very well, and had been most agreeably -entertained by a poor Mexican family on the way. At this a muleteer, who -was bringing in wood for the Brothers, began to laugh, and said there -was no house for twelve leagues, nor anyone at all living in the sandy -waste through which they had come; and the Brothers confirmed him in -this. - -Then Father Junípero and his companion related fully their adventure. -They had set out with bread and water for one day. But on the second day -they had been travelling since dawn across a cactus desert and had begun -to lose heart when, near sunset, they espied in the distance three great -cottonwood trees, very tall in the declining light. Toward these they -hastened. As they approached the trees, which were large and green and -were shedding cotton freely, they observed an ass tied to a dead trunk -which stuck up out of the sand. Looking about for the owner of the ass, -they came upon a little Mexican house with an oven by the door and -strings of red peppers hanging on the wall. When they called aloud, a -venerable Mexican, clad in sheepskins, came out and greeted them kindly, -asking them to stay the night. Going in with him, they observed that all -was neat and comely, and the wife, a young woman of beautiful -countenance, was stirring porridge by the fire. Her child, scarcely more -than an infant and with no garment but his little shirt, was on the -floor beside her, playing with a pet lamb. - -They found these people gentle, pious, and well-spoken. The husband said -they were shepherds. The priests sat at their table and shared their -supper, and afterward read the evening prayers. They had wished to -question the host about the country, and about his mode of life and -where he found pasture for his flock, but they were overcome by a great -and sweet weariness, and taking each a sheepskin provided him, they lay -down upon the floor and sank into deep sleep. When they awoke in the -morning they found all as before, and food set upon the table, but the -family were absent, even to the pet lamb,--having gone, the Fathers -supposed, to care for their flock. - -When the Brothers at the monastery heard this account they were amazed, -declaring that there were indeed three cottonwood trees growing together -in the desert, a well-known landmark; but that if a settler had come, he -must have come very lately. So Father Junípero and Father Andrea, his -companion, with some of the Brothers and the scoffing muleteer, went -back into the wilderness to prove the matter. The three tall trees they -found, shedding their cotton, and the dead trunk to which the ass had -been tied. But the ass was not there, nor any house, nor the oven by the -door. Then the two Fathers sank down upon their knees in that blessed -spot and kissed the earth, for they perceived what Family it was that -had entertained them there. - -Father Junípero confessed to the Brothers how from the moment he -entered the house he had been strangely drawn to the child, and desired -to take him in his arms, but that he kept near his mother. When the -priest was reading the evening prayers the child sat upon the floor -against his mother's knee, with the lamb in his lap, and the Father -found it hard to keep his eyes upon his breviary. After prayers, when he -bade his hosts good-night, he did indeed stoop over the little boy in -blessing; and the child had lifted his hand, and with his tiny finger -made the cross upon Father Junípero's forehead. - -This story of Father Junípero's Holy Family made a strong impression -upon the Bishop, when it was told him by the fireside of that great -hacienda where he was a guest for the night. He had such an affection -for that story, indeed, that he had allowed himself to repeat it on but -two occasions; once to the nuns of Mother Philomène's convent in Riom, -and once at a dinner given by Cardinal Mazzucchi, in Rome. There is -always something charming in the idea of greatness returning to -simplicity--the queen making hay among the country girls--but how much -more endearing was the belief that They, after so many centuries of -history and glory, should return to play Their first parts, in the -persons of a humble Mexican family, the lowliest of the lowly, the -poorest of the poor,--in a wilderness at the end of the world, where the -angels could scarcely find Them! - - - - -5 - - -AFTER his _déjeuner_ the old Archbishop made a pretence of sleeping. He -requested not to be disturbed until dinner-time, and those long hours of -solitude were precious to him. His bed was at the dark end of the room, -where the shadows were restful to his eyes; on fair days the other end -was full of sunlight, on grey days the light of the fire flickered along -the wavy white walls. Lying so still that the bed-clothes over his body -scarcely moved, with his hands resting delicately on the sheet beside -him or upon his breast, the Bishop was living over his life. When he was -otherwise motionless, the thumb of his right hand would sometimes gently -touch a ring on his forefinger, an amethyst with an inscription cut upon -it, _Auspice Maria_,--Father Vaillant's signet-ring; and then he was -almost certainly thinking of Joseph; of their life together here, in this -room ... in Ohio beside the Great Lakes ... as young men in Paris ... as -boys at Montferrand. There were many passages in their missionary -life that he loved to recall; and how often and how fondly he recalled -the beginning of it! - -They were both young men in their twenties, curates to older priests, -when there came to Clermont a Bishop from Ohio, a native of Auvergne, -looking for volunteers for his missions in the West. Father Jean and -Father Joseph heard him lecture at the Seminary, and talked with him in -private. Before he left for the North, they had pledged themselves to -meet him in Paris at a given date, to spend some weeks of preparation at -the College for Foreign Missions in the rue du Bac, and then to sail -with him from Cherbourg. - -Both the young priests knew that their families would strongly oppose -their purpose, so they resolved to reveal it to no one; to make no -adieux, but to steal away disguised in civilian's clothes. They -comforted each other by recalling that St. Francis Xavier, when he set -forth as missionary to India, had stolen away like this; had "_passed -the dwelling of his parents without saluting them_," as they had learned -at school; terrible words to a French boy. - -Father Vaillant's position was especially painful; his father was a -stern, silent man, long a widower, who loved his children with a jealous -passion and had no life but in their lives. Joseph was the eldest child. -The period between his resolve and its execution was a period of anguish -for him. As the date set for their departure drew near, he grew thinner -and paler than ever. - -By agreement the two friends were to meet at dawn in a certain field -outside Riom on the fateful day, and there await the _diligence_ for -Paris. Jean Latour, having made his decision and pledged himself, knew -no wavering. On the appointed morning he stole out of his sister's house -and took his way through the sleeping town to that mountain field, -tip-tilted by reason of its steepness, just beginning to show a cold -green in the heavy light of a cloudy day-break. There he found his -comrade in a miserable plight. Joseph had been abroad in the fields all -night, wandering up and down, finding his purpose and losing it. His -face was swollen with weeping. He shook with a chill, his voice was -beyond his control. - -"What shall I do, Jean? Help me!" he cried. "I cannot break my father's -heart, and I cannot break the vow I have made to Heaven. I had rather -die than do either. Ah, if I could but die of this misery, here, now!" - -How clearly the old Archbishop could recall the scene; those two young -men in the fields in the grey morning, disguised as if they were -criminals, escaping by stealth from their homes. He had not known how to -comfort his friend; it seemed to him that Joseph was suffering more than -flesh could bear, that he was actually being torn in two by conflicting -desires. While they were pacing up and down, arm-in-arm, they heard a -hollow sound; the _diligence_ rumbling down the mountain gorge. Joseph -stood still and buried his face in his hands. The postilion's horn -sounded. - -"_Allons_!" said Jean lightly. "_L'invitation du voyage_! You will -accompany me to Paris. Once we are there, if your father is not -reconciled, we will get Bishop F---- to absolve you from your promise, -and you can return to Riom. It is very simple." - -He ran to the road-side and waved to the driver; the coach stopped. In a -moment they were off, and before long Joseph had fallen asleep in his -seat from sheer exhaustion. But he always said that if Jean Latour had -not supported him in that hour of torment, he would have been a parish -priest in the Puy de Dôm for the rest of his life. - -Of the two young priests who set forth from Riom that morning in early -spring, Jean Latour had seemed the one so much more likely to succeed in -a missionary's life. He, indeed, had a sound mind in a sound body. -During the weeks they spent at the College of Foreign Missions in the -rue du Bac, the authorities had been very doubtful of Joseph's fitness -for the hardships of the mission field. Yet in the long test of years it -was that frail body that had endured more and accomplished more. - -Father Latour often said that his diocese changed little except in -boundaries. The Mexicans were always Mexicans, the Indians were always -Indians. Santa Fé was a quiet backwater, with no natural wealth, no -importance commercially. But Father Vaillant had been plunged into the -midst of a great industrial expansion, where guile and trickery and -honourable ambition all struggled together; a territory that developed -by leaps and bounds and then experienced ruinous reverses. Every year, -even after he was crippled, he travelled thousands of miles by stage and -in his carriage, among the mountain towns that were now rich, now poor -and deserted; Boulder, Gold Hill, Caribou, Cache-à-la-Poudre, Spanish -Bar, South Park, up the Arkansas to Cache Creek and California Gulch. - -And Father Vaillant had not been content to be a mere missionary priest. -He became a promoter. He saw a great future for the Church in Colorado. -While he was still so poor that he could not have a rectory of ordinary -comfort to live in, he began buying up great tracts of land for the -Church. He was able to buy a great deal of land for very little money, -but that little had to be borrowed from banks at a ruinous rate of -interest. He borrowed money to build schools and convents, and the -interest on his debts ate him up. He made long begging trips through -Ohio and Pennsylvania and Canada to raise money to pay this interest, -which grew like a rolling snowball. He formed a land company, went -abroad and floated bonds in France to raise money, and dishonest brokers -brought reproach upon his name. - -When he was nearly seventy, with one leg four inches shorter than the -other, Father Vaillant, then first Bishop of Colorado, was summoned to -Rome to explain his complicated finance before the Papal court,--and he -had very hard work to satisfy the Cardinals. - - -When a dispatch was flashed into Santa Fé announcing Bishop Vaillant's -death, Father Latour at once took the new railroad for Denver. But he -could scarcely believe the telegram. He recalled the old nickname, -Trompe-la-Mort, and remembered how many times before he had hurried -across mountains and deserts, not daring to hope he would find his -friend alive. - -Curiously, Father Latour could never feel that he had actually been -present at Father Joseph's funeral--or rather, he could not believe that -Father Joseph was there. The shrivelled little old man in the coffin, -scarcely larger than a monkey--that had nothing to do with Father -Vaillant. He could see Joseph as clearly as he could see Bernard, but -always as he was when they first came to New Mexico. It was not -sentiment; that was the picture of Father Joseph his memory produced for -him, and it did not produce any other. The funeral itself, he liked to -remember--as a recognition. It was held under canvas, in the open air; -there was not a building in Denver--in the whole Far West, for that -matter,--big enough for his _Blanchet's_ funeral. For two days before, -the populations of villages and mining camps had been streaming down the -mountains; they slept in wagons and tents and barns; they made a throng -like a National Convention in the convent square. And a strange thing -happened at that funeral: - -Father Revardy, the French priest who had gone from Santa Fé to -Colorado with Father Vaillant more than twenty years before, and had -been with him ever since as his curate and Vicar, had been sent to -France on business for his Bishop. While there, he was told by his -physician that he had a fatal malady, and he at once took ship and -hurried homeward, to make his report to Bishop Vaillant and to die in -the harness. When he got as far as Chicago, he had an acute seizure and -was taken to a Catholic hospital, where he lay very ill. One morning a -nurse happened to leave a newspaper near his bed; glancing at it, Father -Revardy saw an announcement of the death of the Bishop of Colorado. When -the Sister returned, she found her patient dressed. He convinced her -that he must be driven to the railway station at once. On reaching -Denver he entered a carriage and asked to be taken to the Bishop's -funeral. He arrived there when the services were nearly half over, and -no one ever forgot the sight of this dying man, supported by the -cab-driver and two priests, making his way through the crowd and -dropping upon his knees beside the bier. A chair was brought for him, -and for the rest of the ceremony he sat with his forehead resting -against the edge of the coffin. When Bishop Vaillant was carried away to -his tomb, Father Revardy was taken to the hospital, where he died a few -days later. It was one more instance of the extraordinary personal -devotion that Father Joseph had so often aroused and retained so long, -in red men and yellow men and white. - - - - -6 - - -DURING those last weeks of the Bishop's life he thought very little -about death; it was the Past he was leaving. The future would take care -of itself. But he had an intellectual curiosity about dying; about the -changes that took place in a man's beliefs and scale of values. More and -more life seemed to him an experience of the Ego, in no sense the Ego -itself. This conviction, he believed, was something apart from his -religious life; it was an enlightenment that came to him as a man, a -human creature. And he noticed that he judged conduct differently now; -his own and that of others. The mistakes of his life seemed unimportant; -accidents that had occurred _en route_, like the shipwreck in Galveston -harbour, or the runaway in which he was hurt when he was first on his -way to New Mexico in search of his Bishopric. - -He observed also that there was no longer any perspective in his -memories. He remembered his winters with his cousins on the -Mediterranean when he was a little boy, his student days in the Holy -City, as clearly as he remembered the arrival of M. Molny and the -building of his Cathedral. He was soon to have done with calendared -time, and it had already ceased to count for him. He sat in the middle -of his own consciousness; none of his former states of mind were lost or -outgrown. They were all within reach of his hand, and all -comprehensible. - -Sometimes, when Magdalena or Bernard came in and asked him a question, -it took him several seconds to bring himself back to the present. He -could see they thought his mind was failing; but it was only -extraordinarily active in some other part of the great picture of his -life--some part of which they knew nothing. - -When the occasion warranted he could return to the present. But there -was not much present left; Father Joseph dead, the Olivares both dead, -Kit Carson dead, only the minor characters of his life remained in -present time. One morning, several weeks after the Bishop came back to -Santa Fé, one of the strong people of the old deep days of life did -appear, not in memory but in the flesh, in the shallow light of the -present; Eusabio the Navajo. Out on the Colorado Chiquito he had heard -the word, passed on from one trading post to another, that the old -Archbishop was failing, and the Indian came to Santa Fé. He, too, was -an old man now. Once again their fine hands clasped. The Bishop brushed -a drop of moisture from his eye. - -"I have wished for this meeting, my friend. I had thought of asking you -to come, but it is a long way." - -The old Navajo smiled. "Not long now, any more. I come on the cars, -Padre. I get on the cars at Gallup, and the same day I am here. You -remember when we come together once to Santa Fé from my country? How -long it take us? Two weeks, pretty near. Men travel faster now, but I do -not know if they go to better things." - -"We must not try to know the future, Eusabio. It is better not. And -Manuelito?" - -"Manuelito is well; he still leads his people." - -Eusabio did not stay long, but he said he would come again to-morrow, as -he had business in Santa Fé that would keep him for some days. He had -no business there; but when he looked at Father Latour he said to -himself, "It will not be long." - -After he was gone, the Bishop turned to Bernard; "My son, I have lived -to see two great wrongs righted; I have seen the end of black slavery, -and I have seen the Navajos restored to their own country." - -For many years Father Latour used to wonder if there would ever be an -end to the Indian wars while there was one Navajo or Apache left alive. -Too many traders and manufacturers made a rich profit out of that -warfare; a political machine and immense capital were employed to keep -it going. - - - - -7 - - -THE Bishop's middle years in New Mexico had been clouded by the -persecution of the Navajos and their expulsion from their own country. -Through his friendship with Eusabio he had become interested in the -Navajos soon after he first came to his new diocese, and he admired -them; they stirred his imagination. Though this nomad people were much -slower to adopt white man's ways than the homestaying Indians who dwelt -in pueblos, and were much more indifferent to missionaries and the white -man's religion, Father Latour felt a superior strength in them. There -was purpose and conviction behind their inscrutable reserve; something -active and quick, something with an edge. The expulsion of the Navajos -from their country, which had been theirs no man knew how long, had -seemed to him an injustice that cried to Heaven. Never could he forget -that terrible winter when they were being hunted down and driven by -thousands from their own reservation to the Bosque Redondo, three -hundred miles away on the Pecos River. Hundreds of them, men, women, and -children, perished from hunger and cold on the way; their sheep and -horses died from exhaustion crossing the mountains. None ever went -willingly; they were driven by starvation and the bayonet; captured in -isolated bands, and brutally deported. - -It was his own misguided friend, Kit Carson, who finally subdued the -last unconquered remnant of that people; who followed them into the -depths of the Canyon de Chelly, whither they had fled from their grazing -plains and pine forests to make their last stand. They were shepherds, -with no property but their live-stock, encumbered by their women and -children, poorly armed and with scanty ammunition. But this canyon had -always before proved impenetrable to white troops. The Navajos believed -it could not be taken. They believed that their old gods dwelt in the -fastnesses of that canyon; like their Shiprock, it was an inviolate -place, the very heart and centre of their life. - -Carson followed them down into the hidden world between those towering -walls of red sandstone, spoiled their stores, destroyed their -deep-sheltered corn-fields, cut down the terraced peach orchards so dear -to them. When they saw all that was sacred to them laid waste, the -Navajos lost heart. They did not surrender; they simply ceased to fight, -and were taken. Carson was a soldier under orders, and he did a -soldier's brutal work. But the bravest of the Navajo chiefs he did not -capture. Even after the crushing defeat of his people in the Canyon de -Chelly, Manuelito was still at large. It was then that Eusabio came to -Santa Fé to ask Bishop Latour to meet Manuelito at Zuñi. As a priest, -the Bishop knew that it was indiscreet to consent to a meeting with this -outlawed chief; but he was a man, too, and a lover of justice. The -request came to him in such a way that he could not refuse it. He went -with Eusabio. - -Though the Government was offering a heavy reward for his person, living -or dead, Manuelito rode off his own reservation down into Zuñi in broad -daylight, attended by some dozen followers, all on wretched, -half-starved horses. He had been in hiding out in Eusabio's country on -the Colorado Chiquito. - -It was Manuelito's hope that the Bishop would go to Washington and plead -his people's cause before they were utterly destroyed. They asked -nothing of the Government, he told Father Latour, but their religion, -and their own land where they had lived from immemorial times. Their -country, he explained, was a part of their religion; the two were -inseparable. The Canyon de Chelly the Padre knew; in that canyon his -people had lived when they were a small weak tribe; it had nourished and -protected them; it was their mother. Moreover, their gods dwelt -there--in those inaccessible white houses set in caverns up in the face -of the cliffs, which were older than the white man's world, and which no -living man had ever entered. Their gods were there, just as the Padre's -God was in his church. - -And north of the Canyon de Chelly was the Shiprock, a slender crag -rising to a dizzy height, all alone out on a flat desert. Seen at a -distance of fifty miles or so, that crag presents the figure of a -one-masted fishing-boat under full sail, and the white man named it -accordingly. But the Indian has another name; he believes that rock was -once a ship of the air. Ages ago, Manuelito told the Bishop, that crag -had moved through the air, bearing upon its summit the parents of the -Navajo race from the place in the far north where all peoples were -made,--and wherever it sank to earth was to be their land. It sank in a -desert country, where it was hard for men to live. But they had found -the Canyon de Chelly, where there was shelter and unfailing water. That -canyon and the Shiprock were like kind parents to his people, places -more sacred to them than churches, more sacred than any place is to the -white man. How, then, could they go three hundred miles away and live in -a strange land? - -Moreover, the Bosque Redondo was down on the Pecos, far east of the Rio -Grande. Manuelito drew a map in the sand, and explained to the Bishop -how, from the very beginning, it had been enjoined that his people must -never cross the Rio Grande on the east, or the Rio San Juan on the -north, or the Rio Colorado on the west; if they did, the tribe would -perish. If a great priest, like Father Latour, were to go to Washington -and explain these things, perhaps the Government would listen. - -Father Latour tried to tell the Indian that in a Protestant country the -one thing a Roman priest could not do was to interfere in matters of -Government. Manuelito listened respectfully, but the Bishop saw that he -did not believe him. When he had finished, the Navajo rose and said: - -"You are the friend of Cristobal, who hunts my people and drives them -over the mountains to the Bosque Redondo. Tell your friend that he will -never take me alive. He can come and kill me when he pleases. Two years -ago I could not count my flocks; now I have thirty sheep and a few -starving horses. My children are eating roots, and I do not care for my -life. But my mother and my gods are in the West, and I will never cross -the Rio Grande." - -He never did cross it. He lived in hiding until the return of his exiled -people. For an unforeseen thing happened: - -The Bosque Redondo proved an utterly unsuitable country for the Navajos. -It could have been farmed by irrigation, but they were nomad shepherds, -not farmers. There was no pasture for their flocks. There was no -firewood; they dug mesquite roots and dried them for fuel. It was an -alkaline country, and hundreds of Indians died from bad water. At last -the Government at Washington admitted its mistake--which governments -seldom do. After five years of exile, the remnant of the Navajo people -were permitted to go back to their sacred places. - -In 1875 the Bishop took his French architect on a pack trip into Arizona -to show him something of the country before he returned to France, and -he had the pleasure of seeing the Navajo horsemen riding free over their -great plains again. The two Frenchmen went as far as the Canyon de -Chelly to behold the strange cliff ruins; once more crops were growing -down at the bottom of the world between the towering sandstone walls; -sheep were grazing under the magnificent cottonwoods and drinking at the -streams of sweet water; it was like an Indian Garden of Eden. - - -Now, when he was an old man and ill, scenes from those bygone times, -dark and bright, flashed back to the Bishop: the terrible faces of the -Navajos waiting at the place on the Rio Grande where they were being -ferried across into exile; the long streams of survivors going back to -their own country, driving their scanty flocks, carrying their old men -and their children. Memories, too, of that time he had spent with -Eusabio on the Little Colorado, in the early spring, when the lambing -season was not yet over,--dark horsemen riding across the sands with -orphan lambs in their arms--a young Navajo woman, giving a lamb her -breast until a ewe was found for it. - -"Bernard," the old Bishop would murmur, "God has been very good to let -me live to see a happy issue to those old wrongs. I do not believe, as I -once did, that the Indian will perish. I believe that God will preserve -him." - - - - -8 - - -THE American doctor was consulting with Archbishop S---- and the Mother -Superior. "It is his heart that is the trouble now. I have been giving -him small doses to stimulate it, but they no longer have any effect. I -scarcely dare increase them; it might be fatal at once. But that is why -you see such a change in him." - -The change was that the old man did not want food, and that he slept, or -seemed to sleep, nearly all the time. On the last day of his life his -condition was pretty generally known. The Cathedral was full of people -all day long, praying for him; nuns and old women, young men and girls, -coming and going. The sick man had received the Viaticum early in the -morning. Some of the Tesuque Indians, who had been his country -neighbours, came into Santa Fé and sat all day in the Archbishop's -courtyard listening for news of him; with them was Eusabio the Navajo. -Fructosa and Tranquilino, his old servants, were with the supplicants in -the Cathedral. - -The Mother Superior and Magdalena and Bernard attended the sick man. -There was little to do but to watch and pray, so peaceful and painless -was his repose. Sometimes it was sleep, they knew from his relaxed -features; then his face would assume personality, consciousness, even -though his eyes did not open. - -Toward the close of day, in the short twilight after the candles were -lighted, the old Bishop seemed to become restless, moved a little, and -began to murmur; it was in the French tongue, but Bernard, though he -caught some words, could make nothing of them. He knelt beside the bed: -"What is it, Father? I am here." - -He continued to murmur, to move his hands a little, and Magdalena -thought he was trying to ask for something, or to tell them something. -But in reality the Bishop was not there at all; he was standing in a -tip-tilted green field among his native mountains, and he was trying to -give consolation to a young man who was being torn in two before his eyes -by the desire to go and the necessity to stay. He was trying to forge a -new Will in that devout and exhausted priest; and the time was short, -for the _diligence_ for Paris was already rumbling down the mountain -gorge. - - -When the Cathedral bell tolled just after dark, the Mexican population -of Santa Fé fell upon their knees, and all American Catholics as well. -Many others who did not kneel prayed in their hearts. Eusabio and the -Tesuque boys went quietly away to tell their people; and the next -morning the old Archbishop lay before the high altar in the church he -had built. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Death comes for the archbishop</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Willa Cather</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 7, 2023 [eBook #69730] -<br>[Most recently updated: September 26, 2023]</div> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by The Internet Archive.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - -<div class='ph2'>BY WILLA CATHER</div> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<h1>DEATH COMES<br> -FOR THE<br> -ARCHBISHOP</h1> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">"<i>Auspice Maria!</i>"</span><br> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Father Vaillant's signet-ring</span> -</div></div></div> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>NEW YORK<br> -ALFRED A KNOPF—MCMXXVII</b></p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center">COPYRIGHT 1926, 1927, BY WILLA CATHER</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><i>The Works of</i><br> -WILLA CATHER</p> - -<p> -ALEXANDER'S BRIDGE -</p> -<p> -O PIONEERS! -</p> -<p> -THE SONG OF THE LARK -</p> -<p> -MY ANTONIA -</p> -<p> -ONE OF OURS -</p> -<p> -A LOST LADY -</p> -<p> -THE PROFESSOR'S HOUSE -</p> -<p> -MY MORTAL ENEMY -</p> -<p> -YOUTH AND THE BRIGHT MEDUSA -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#Prologue">Prologue. At Rome</a><br> - -1. <a href="#chap01">The Vicar Apostolic</a><br> - -2. <a href="#chap02">Missionary Journeys</a><br> - -3. <a href="#chap03">The Mass at Ácoma</a><br> - -4. <a href="#chap04">Snake Root</a><br> - -5. <a href="#chap05">Padre Martinez</a><br> - -6. <a href="#chap06">Doña Isabella</a><br> - -7. <a href="#chap07">The Great Diocese</a><br> - -8. <a href="#chap08">Gold under Pike's Peak</a><br> - -9. <a href="#chap09">Death Comes for the Archbishop</a></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>DEATH COMES FOR THE<br> -ARCHBISHOP</h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="Prologue"><i>PROLOGUE</i></a> -<br><br> -AT ROME</h2> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>NE summer evening in the year 1848, three -Cardinals and a missionary Bishop from America were dining together in -the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome. The villa -was famous for the fine view from its terrace. The hidden garden in -which the four men sat at table lay some twenty feet below the south end -of this terrace, and was a mere shelf of rock, overhanging a steep -declivity planted with vineyards. A flight of stone steps connected it -with the promenade above. The table stood in a sanded square, among -potted orange and oleander trees, shaded by spreading ilex oaks that -grew out of the rocks overhead. Beyond the balustrade was the drop into -the air, and far below the landscape stretched soft and undulating; -there was nothing to arrest the eye until it reached Rome itself. -</p> -<p> -It was early when the Spanish Cardinal and his guests sat down to -dinner. The sun was still good for an hour of supreme splendour, and -across the shining folds of country the low profile of the city barely -fretted the sky-line—indistinct except for the dome of St. Peter's, -bluish grey like the flattened top of a great balloon, just a flash of -copper light on its soft metallic surface. The Cardinal had an eccentric -preference for beginning his dinner at this time in the late afternoon, -when the vehemence of the sun suggested motion. The light was full of -action and had a peculiar quality of climax—of splendid finish. It -was both intense and soft, with a ruddiness as of much-multiplied -candlelight, an aura of red in its flames. It bored into the ilex trees, -illuminating their mahogany trunks and blurring their dark foliage; it -warmed the bright green of the orange trees and the rose of the oleander -blooms to gold; sent congested spiral patterns quivering over the damask -and plate and crystal. The churchmen kept their rectangular clerical -caps on their heads to protect them from the sun. The three Cardinals -wore black cassocks with crimson pipings and crimson buttons, the Bishop -a long black coat over his violet vest. -</p> -<p> -They were talking business; had met, indeed, to discuss an anticipated -appeal from the Provincial Council at Baltimore for the founding of an -Apostolic Vicarate in New Mexico—a part of North America recently -annexed to the United States. This new territory was vague to all of -them, even to the missionary Bishop. The Italian and French Cardinals -spoke of it as <i>Le Mexique</i>, and the Spanish host referred to it as -"New Spain." Their interest in the projected Vicarate was tepid, and had to -be continually revived by the missionary, Father Ferrand; Irish by -birth, French by ancestry—a man of wide wanderings and notable -achievement in the New World, an Odysseus of the Church. The language -spoken was French—the time had already gone by when Cardinals could -conveniently discuss contemporary matters in Latin. -</p> -<p> -The French and Italian Cardinals were men in vigorous middle life—the -Norman full-belted and ruddy, the Venetian spare and sallow and -hook-nosed. Their host, Garcia Maria de Allande, was still a young man. -He was dark in colouring, but the long Spanish face, that looked out -from so many canvases in his ancestral portrait gallery, was in the -young Cardinal much modified through his English mother. With his -<i>caffè oscuro</i> eyes, he had a fresh, pleasant English mouth, and an -open manner. -</p> -<p> -During the latter years of the reign of Gregory XVI, de Allande had been -the most influential man at the Vatican; but since the death of Gregory, -two years ago, he had retired to his country estate. He believed the -reforms of the new Pontiff impractical and dangerous, and had withdrawn -from politics, confining his activities to work for the Society for the -Propagation of the Faith—that organization which had been so fostered -by Gregory. In his leisure the Cardinal played tennis. As a boy, in -England, he had been passionately fond of this sport. Lawn tennis had -not yet come into fashion; it was a formidable game of indoor tennis the -Cardinal played. Amateurs of that violent sport came from Spain and -France to try their skill against him. -</p> -<p> -The missionary, Bishop Ferrand, looked much older than any of them, old -and rough—except for his clear, intensely blue eyes. His diocese lay -within the icy arms of the Great Lakes, and on his long, lonely -horseback rides among his missions the sharp winds had bitten him well. -The missionary was here for a purpose, and he pressed his point. He ate -more rapidly than the others and had plenty of time to plead his -cause,—finished each course with such dispatch that the Frenchman -remarked he would have been an ideal dinner companion for Napoleon. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop laughed and threw out his brown hands in apology. "Likely -enough I have forgot my manners. I am preoccupied. Here you can scarcely -understand what it means that the United States has annexed that -enormous territory which was the cradle of the Faith in the New World. -The Vicarate of New Mexico will be in a few years raised to an Episcopal -See, with jurisdiction over a country larger than Central and Western -Europe, barring Russia. The Bishop of that See will direct the beginning -of momentous things." -</p> -<p> -"Beginnings," murmured the Venetian, "there have been so many. But -nothing ever comes from over there but trouble and appeals for money." -</p> -<p> -The missionary turned to him patiently. "Your Eminence, I beg you to -follow me. This country was evangelized in fifteen hundred, by the -Franciscan Fathers. It has been allowed to drift for nearly three -hundred years and is not yet dead. It still pitifully calls itself a -Catholic country, and tries to keep the forms of religion without -instruction. The old mission churches are in ruins. The few priests are -without guidance or discipline. They are lax in religious observance, -and some of them live in open concubinage. If this Augean stable is not -cleansed, now that the territory has been taken over by a progressive -government, it will prejudice the interests of the Church in the whole -of North America." -</p> -<p> -"But these missions are still under the jurisdiction of Mexico, are they -not?" inquired the Frenchman. -</p> -<p> -"In the See of the Bishop of Durango?" added Maria de Allande. -</p> -<p> -The missionary sighed. "Your Eminence, the Bishop of Durango is an old -man; and from his seat to Santa Fé is a distance of fifteen hundred -English miles. There are no wagon roads, no canals, no navigable rivers. -Trade is carried on by means of pack-mules, over treacherous trails. The -desert down there has a peculiar horror; I do not mean thirst, nor -Indian massacres, which are frequent. The very floor of the world is -cracked open into countless canyons and arroyos, fissures in the earth -which are sometimes ten feet deep, sometimes a thousand. Up and down -these stony chasms the traveller and his mules clamber as best they can. -It is impossible to go far in any direction without crossing them. If -the Bishop of Durango should summon a disobedient priest by letter, who -shall bring the Padre to him? Who can prove that he ever received the -summons? The post is carried by hunters, fur trappers, gold seekers, -whoever happens to be moving on the trails." -</p> -<p> -The Norman Cardinal emptied his glass and wiped his lips. -</p> -<p> -"And the inhabitants, Father Ferrand? If these are the travellers, who -stays at home?" -</p> -<p> -"Some thirty Indian nations, Monsignor, each with its own customs and -language, many of them fiercely hostile to each other. And the Mexicans, -a naturally devout people. Untaught and unshepherded, they cling to the -faith of their fathers." -</p> -<p> -"I have a letter from the Bishop of Durango, recommending his Vicar for -this new post," remarked Maria de Allande. -</p> -<p> -"Your Eminence, it would be a great misfortune if a native priest were -appointed; they have never done well in that field. Besides, this Vicar -is old. The new Vicar must be a young man, of strong constitution, full -of zeal, and above all, intelligent. He will have to deal with savagery -and ignorance, with dissolute priests and political intrigue. He must be -a man to whom order is necessary—as dear as life." -</p> -<p> -The Spaniard's coffee-coloured eyes showed a glint of yellow as he -glanced sidewise at his guest. "I suspect, from your exordium, that you -have a candidate—and that he is a French priest, perhaps?" -</p> -<p> -"You guess rightly, Monsignor. I am glad to see that we have the same -opinion of French missionaries." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said the Cardinal lightly, "they are the best missionaries. Our -Spanish fathers made good martyrs, but the French Jesuits accomplish -more. They are the great organizers." -</p> -<p> -"Better than the Germans?" asked the Venetian, who had Austrian -sympathies. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange! The French -missionaries have a sense of proportion and rational adjustment. They -are always trying to discover the logical relation of things. It is a -passion with them." Here the host turned to the old Bishop again. "But -your Grace, why do you neglect this Burgundy? I had this wine brought up -from my cellar especially to warm away the chill of your twenty Canadian -winters. Surely, you do not gather vintages like, this on the shores of -the Great Lake Huron?" -</p> -<p> -The missionary smiled as he took up his untouched glass. "It is superb, -your Eminence, but I fear I have lost my palate for vintages. Out there, -a little whisky, or Hudson Bay Company rum, does better for us. I must -confess I enjoyed the champagne in Paris. We had been forty days at sea, -and I am a poor sailor." -</p> -<p> -"Then we must have some for you." He made a sign to his major-domo. "You -like it very cold? And your new Vicar Apostolic, what will he drink in -the country of bison and <i>serpents à sonnettes</i>? And what will he -eat?" -</p> -<p> -"He will eat dried buffalo meat and frijoles with chili, and he will be -glad to drink water when he can get it. He will have no easy life, your -Eminence. That country will drink up his youth and strength as it does -the rain. He will be called upon for every sacrifice, quite possibly for -martyrdom. Only last year the Indian pueblo of San Fernandez de Taos -murdered and scalped the American Governor and some dozen other whites. -The reason they did not scalp their Padre, was that their Padre was one -of the leaders of the rebellion and himself planned the massacre. That -is how things stand in New Mexico!" -</p> -<p> -"Where is your candidate at present, Father?" -</p> -<p> -"He is a parish priest, on the shores of Lake Ontario, in my diocese. I -have watched his work for nine years. He is but thirty-five now. He came -to us directly from the Seminary." -</p> -<p> -"And his name is?" -</p> -<p> -"Jean Marie Latour." -</p> -<p> -Maria de Allande, leaning back in his chair, put the tips of his long -fingers together and regarded them thoughtfully. -</p> -<p> -"Of course, Father Ferrand, the Propaganda will almost certainly appoint -to this Vicarate the man whom the Council at Baltimore recommends." -</p> -<p> -"Ah yes, your Eminence; but a word from you to the Provincial Council, -an inquiry, a suggestion——" -</p> -<p> -"Would have some weight, I admit," replied the Cardinal smiling. "And -this Latour is intelligent, you say? What a fate you are drawing upon -him! But I suppose it is no worse than a life among the Hurons. My -knowledge of your country is chiefly drawn from the romances of Fenimore -Cooper, which I read in English with great pleasure. But has your priest -a versatile intelligence? Any intelligence in matters of art, for -example?" -</p> -<p> -"And what need would he have for that, Monsignor? Besides, he is from -Auvergne." -</p> -<p> -The three Cardinals broke into laughter and refilled their glasses. They -were all becoming restive under the monotonous persistence of the -missionary. -</p> -<p> -"Listen," said the host, "and I will relate a little story, while the -Bishop does me the compliment to drink my champagne. I have a reason for -asking this question which you have answered so finally. In my family -house in Valencia I have a number of pictures by the great Spanish -painters, collected chiefly by my great-grandfather, who was a man of -perception in these things and, for his time, rich. His collection of El -Greco is, I believe, quite the best in Spain. When my progenitor was an -old man, along came one of these missionary priests from New Spain, -begging. All missionaries from the Americas were inveterate beggars, -then as now, Bishop Ferrand. This Franciscan had considerable success, -with his tales of pious Indian converts and struggling missions. He came -to visit at my great-grandfather's house and conducted devotions in the -absence of the Chaplain. He wheedled a good sum of money out of the old -man, as well as vestments and linen and chalices—he would take -anything—and he implored my grandfather to give him a painting from -his great collection, for the ornamentation of his mission church among the -Indians. My grandfather told him to choose from the gallery, believing -the priest would covet most what he himself could best afford to spare. -But not at all; the hairy Franciscan pounced upon one of the best in the -collection; a young St. Francis in meditation, by El Greco, and the -model for the saint was one of the very handsome Dukes of Albuquerque. -My grandfather protested; tried to persuade the fellow that some picture -of the Crucifixion, or a martyrdom, would appeal more strongly to his -redskins. What would a St. Francis, of almost feminine beauty, mean to -the scalp-takers? -</p> -<p> -"All in vain. The missionary turned upon his host with a reply which has -become a saying in our family: 'You refuse me this picture because it is -a good picture. <i>It is too good for God, but it is not too good for -you</i>.' -</p> -<p> -"He carried off the painting. In my grandfather's manuscript catalogue, -under the number and title of the St. Francis, is written: <i>Given to -Fray Teodocio, for the glory of God, to enrich his mission church at -Pueblo de Cia, among the savages of New Spain</i>. -</p> -<p> -"It is because of this lost treasure, Father Ferrand, that I happen to -have had some personal correspondence with the Bishop of Durango. I once -wrote the facts to him fully. He replied to me that the mission at Cia -was long ago destroyed and its furnishings scattered. Of course the -painting may have been ruined in a pillage or massacre. On the other -hand, it may still be hidden away in some crumbling sacristy or smoky -wigwam. If your French priest had a discerning eye, now, and were sent -to this Vicarate, he might keep my El Greco in mind." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop shook his head. "No, I can't promise you—I do not know. I -have noticed that he is a man of severe and refined tastes, but he is -very reserved. Down there the Indians do not dwell in wigwams, your -Eminence," he added gently. -</p> -<p> -"No matter, Father. I see your redskins through Fenimore Cooper, and I -like them so. Now let us go to the terrace for our coffee and watch the -evening come on." -</p> -<p> -The Cardinal led his guests up the narrow stairway. The long gravelled -terrace and its balustrade were blue as a lake in the dusky air. Both -sun and shadows were gone. The folds of russet country were now violet. -Waves of rose and gold throbbed up the sky from behind the dome of the -Basilica. -</p> -<p> -As the churchmen walked up and down the promenade, watching the stars -come out, their talk touched upon many matters, but they avoided -politics, as men are apt to do in dangerous times. Not a word was spoken -of the Lombard war, in which the Pope's position was so anomalous. They -talked instead of a new opera by young Verdi, which was being sung in -Venice; of the case of a Spanish dancing-girl who had lately become a -religious and was said to be working miracles in Andalusia. In this -conversation the missionary took no part, nor could he even follow it -with much interest. He asked himself whether he had been on the frontier -so long that he had quite lost his taste for the talk of clever men. But -before they separated for the night Maria de Allande spoke a word in his -ear, in English. -</p> -<p> -"You are distrait, Father Ferrand. Are you wishing to unmake your new -Bishop already? It is too late. Jean Marie Latour—am I right?" -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap01"></a>BOOK ONE -<br><br> -<i>THE VICAR APOSTOLIC</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE CRUCIFORM TREE</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>NE afternoon in the autumn of 1851 a -solitary horseman, followed by a pack-mule, was pushing through an arid -stretch of country somewhere in central New Mexico. He had lost his way, -and was trying to get back to the trail, with only his compass and his -sense of direction for guides. The difficulty was that the country in -which he found himself was so featureless—or rather, that it was -crowded with features, all exactly alike. As far as he could see, on -every side, the landscape was heaped up into monotonous red sand-hills, -not much larger than haycocks, and very much the shape of haycocks. One -could not have believed that in the number of square miles a man is able -to sweep with the eye there could be so many uniform red hills. He had -been riding among them since early morning, and the look of the country -had no more changed than if he had stood still. He must have travelled -through thirty miles of these conical red hills, winding his way in the -narrow cracks between them, and he had begun to think that he would -never see anything else. They were so exactly like one another that he -seemed to be wandering in some geometrical nightmare; flattened cones, -they were, more the shape of Mexican ovens than haycocks—yes, -exactly the shape of Mexican ovens, red as brick-dust, and naked of -vegetation except for small juniper trees. And the junipers, too, were -the shape of Mexican ovens. Every conical hill was spotted with smaller -cones of juniper, a uniform yellowish green, as the hills were a uniform -red. The hills thrust out of the ground so thickly that they seemed to -be pushing each other, elbowing each other aside, tipping each other -over. -</p> -<p> -The blunted pyramid, repeated so many hundred times upon his retina and -crowding down upon him in the heat, had confused the traveller, who was -sensitive to the shape of things. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Mais, c'est fantastique</i>!" he muttered, closing his eyes to rest -them from the intrusive omnipresence of the triangle. -</p> -<p> -When he opened his eyes again, his glance immediately fell upon one -juniper which differed in shape from the others. It was not a -thick-growing cone, but a naked, twisted trunk, perhaps ten feet high, -and at the top it parted into two lateral, flat-lying branches, with a -little crest of green in the centre, just above the cleavage. Living -vegetation could not present more faithfully the form of the Cross. -</p> -<p> -The traveller dismounted, drew from his pocket a much worn book, and -baring his head, knelt at the foot of the cruciform tree. -</p> -<p> -Under his buckskin riding-coat he wore a black vest and the cravat and -collar of a churchman. A young priest, at his devotions; and a priest in -a thousand, one knew at a glance. His bowed head was not that of an -ordinary man,—it was built for the seat of a fine intelligence. His -brow was open, generous, reflective, his features handsome and somewhat -severe. There was a singular elegance about the hands below the fringed -cuffs of the buckskin jacket. Everything showed him to be a man of -gentle birth—brave, sensitive, courteous. His manners, even when he -was alone in the desert, were distinguished. He had a kind of courtesy -toward himself, toward his beasts, toward the juniper tree before which -he knelt, and the God whom he was addressing. -</p> -<p> -His devotions lasted perhaps half an hour, and when he rose he looked -refreshed. He began talking to his mare in halting Spanish, asking -whether she agreed with him that it would be better to push on, weary as -she was, in hope of finding the trail. He had no water left in his -canteen, and the horses had had none since yesterday morning. They had -made a dry camp in these hills last night. The animals were almost at -the end of their endurance, but they would not recuperate until they got -water, and it seemed best to spend their last strength in searching for -it. -</p> -<p> -On a long caravan trip across Texas this man had had some experience of -thirst, as the party with which he travelled was several times put on a -meagre water ration for days together. But he had not suffered then as -he did now. Since morning he had had a feeling of illness; the taste of -fever in his mouth, and alarming seizures of vertigo. As these conical -hills pressed closer and closer upon him, he began to wonder whether his -long wayfaring from the mountains of Auvergne were possibly to end here. -He reminded himself of that cry, wrung from his Saviour on the Cross, -"<i>J'ai soif</i>!" Of all our Lord's physical sufferings, only one, "I -thirst," rose to His lips. Empowered by long training, the young priest -blotted himself out of his own consciousness and meditated upon the -anguish of his Lord. The Passion of Jesus became for him the only -reality; the need of his own body was but a part of that conception. -</p> -<p> -His mare stumbled, breaking his mood of contemplation. He was sorrier -for his beasts than for himself. He, supposed to be the intelligence of -the party, had got the poor animals into this interminable desert of -ovens. He was afraid he had been absent-minded, had been pondering his -problem instead of heeding the way. His problem was how to recover a -Bishopric. He was a Vicar Apostolic, lacking a Vicarate. He was thrust -out; his flock would have none of him. -</p> -<p> -The traveller was Jean Marie Latour, consecrated Vicar Apostolic of New -Mexico and Bishop of Agathonica <i>in partibus</i> at Cincinnati a year -ago—and ever since then he had been trying to reach his Vicarate. No -one in Cincinnati could tell him how to get to New Mexico—no one had -ever been there. Since young Father Latour's arrival in America, a -railroad had been built through from New York to Cincinnati; but there -it ended. New Mexico lay in the middle of a dark continent. The Ohio -merchants knew of two routes only. One was the Santa Fé trail from St. -Louis, but at that time it was very dangerous because of Comanche Indian -raids. His friends advised Father Latour to go down the river to New -Orleans, thence by boat to Galveston, across Texas to San Antonio, and -to wind up into New Mexico along the Rio Grande valley. This he had -done, but with what misadventures! -</p> -<p> -His steamer was wrecked and sunk in the Galveston harbour, and he had -lost all his worldly possessions except his books, which he saved at the -risk of his life. He crossed Texas with a traders' caravan, and -approaching San Antonio he was hurt in jumping from an overturning -wagon, and had to lie for three months in the crowded house of a poor -Irish family, waiting for his injured leg to get strong. -</p> -<p> -It was nearly a year after he had embarked upon the Mississippi that the -young Bishop, at about the sunset hour of a summer afternoon, at last -beheld the old settlement toward which he had been journeying so long: -The wagon train had been going all day through a greasewood plain, when -late in the afternoon the teamsters began shouting that over yonder was -the Villa. Across the level, Father Latour could distinguish low brown -shapes, like earthworks, lying at the base of wrinkled green mountains -with bare tops,—wave-like mountains, resembling billows beaten up -from a flat sea by a heavy gale; and their green was of two -colors—aspen and evergreen, not intermingled but lying in solid -areas of light and dark. -</p> -<p> -As the wagons went forward and the sun sank lower, a sweep of red -carnelian-coloured hills lying at the foot of the mountains came into -view; they curved like two arms about a depression in the plain; and in -that depression, was Santa Fé, at last! A thin, wavering adobe town ... -a green plaza ... at one end a church with two earthen towers that rose -high above the flatness. The long main street began at the church, the -town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring. The church -towers, and all the low adobe houses, were rose colour in that -light,—a little darker in tone than the amphitheatre of red hills -behind; and periodically the plumes of poplars flashed like gracious -accent marks,—inclining and recovering themselves in the wind. -</p> -<p> -The young Bishop was not alone in the exaltation of that hour; beside -him rode Father Joseph Vaillant, his boyhood friend, who had made this -long pilgrimage with him and shared his dangers. The two rode into Santa -Fé together, claiming it for the glory of God. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -How, then, had Father Latour come to be here in the sand-hills, many -miles from his seat, unattended, far out of his way and with no -knowledge of how to get back to it? -</p> -<p> -On his arrival at Santa Fé, this was what had happened: The Mexican -priests there had refused to recognize his authority. They disclaimed -any knowledge of a Vicarate Apostolic, or a Bishop of Agathonica. They -said they were under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Durango, and had -received no instructions to the contrary. If Father Latour was to be -their Bishop, where were his credentials? A parchment and letters, he -knew, had been sent to the Bishop of Durango, but these had evidently -got no farther. There was no postal service in this part of the world; -the quickest and surest way to communicate with the Bishop of Durango -was to go to him. So, having travelled for nearly a year to reach Santa -Fé, Father Latour left it after a few weeks, and set off alone on -horseback to ride down into Old Mexico and back, a journey of full -three thousand miles. -</p> -<p> -He had been warned that there were many trails leading off the Rio -Grande road, and that a stranger might easily mistake his way. For the -first few days he had been cautious and watchful. Then he must have -grown careless and turned into some purely local trail. When he realized -that he was astray, his canteen was already empty and his horses seemed -too exhausted to retrace their steps. He had persevered in this sandy -track, which grew ever fainter, reasoning that it must lead somewhere. -</p> -<p> -All at once Father Latour thought he felt a change in the body of his -mare. She lifted her head for the first time in a long while, and seemed -to redistribute her weight upon her legs. The pack-mule behaved in a -similar manner, and both quickened their pace. Was it possible they -scented water? -</p> -<p> -Nearly an hour went by, and then, winding between two hills that were -like all the hundreds they had passed, the two beasts whinnied -simultaneously. Below them, in the midst of that wavy ocean of sand, was -a green thread of verdure and a running stream. This ribbon in the -desert seemed no wider than a man could throw a stone,—and it was -greener than anything Latour had ever seen, even in his own greenest -corner of the Old World. But for the quivering of the hide on his mare's -neck and shoulders, he might have thought this a vision, a delusion of -thirst. -</p> -<p> -Running water, clover fields, cottonwoods, acacias, little adobe houses -with brilliant gardens, a boy-driving a flock of white goats toward the -stream,—that was what the young Bishop saw. -</p> -<p> -A few moments later, when he was struggling with his horses, trying to -keep them from overdrinking, a young girl with a black shawl over her -head came running toward him. He thought he had never seen a kindlier -face. Her greeting was that of a Christian. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Ave Maria Purissima, Señor</i>. Whence do you come?" -</p> -<p> -"Blessed child," he replied in Spanish, "I am a priest who has lost his -way. I am famished for water." -</p> -<p> -"A priest?" she cried, "that is not possible! Yet I look at you, and it -is true. Such a thing has never happened to us before; it must be in -answer to my father's prayers. Run, Pedro, and tell father and -Salvatore." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>HIDDEN WATER</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>N hour later, as darkness came over the -sand-hills, the young Bishop was seated at supper in the motherhouse of -this Mexican settlement—which, he learned, was appropriately -called <i>Agua Secreta</i>, Hidden Water. At the table with him were his -host, an old man called Benito, the oldest son, and two grandsons. The -old man was a widower, and his daughter, Josepha, the girl who had run -to meet the Bishop at the stream, was his housekeeper. Their supper was -a pot of frijoles cooked with meat, bread and goat's milk, fresh cheese -and ripe apples. -</p> -<p> -From the moment he entered this room with its thick whitewashed adobe -walls, Father Latour had felt a kind of peace about it. In its bareness -and simplicity there was something comely, as there was about the -serious girl who had placed their food before them and who now stood in -the shadows against the wall, her eager eyes fixed upon his face. He -found himself very much at home with the four dark-headed men who sat -beside him in the candlelight. Their manners were gentle, their voices -low and agreeable. When he said grace before meat, the men had knelt on -the floor beside the table. The grandfather declared that the Blessed -Virgin must have led the Bishop from his path and brought him here to -baptize the children and to sanctify the marriages. Their settlement was -little known, he said. They had no papers for their land and were afraid -the Americans might take it away from them. There was no one in their -settlement who could read or write. Salvatore, his oldest son, had gone -all the way to Albuquerque to find a wife, and had married there. But -the priest had charged him twenty pesos, and that was half of all he had -saved to buy furniture and glass windows for his house. His brothers and -cousins, discouraged by his experience, had taken wives without the -marriage sacrament. -</p> -<p> -In answer to the Bishop's questions, they told him the simple story of -their lives. They had here all they needed to make them happy. They spun -and wove from the fleece of their flocks, raised their own corn and -wheat and tobacco, dried their plums and apricots for winter. Once a -year the boys took the grain up to Albuquerque to have it ground, and -bought such luxuries as sugar and coffee. They had bees, and when sugar -was high they sweetened with honey. Benito did not know in what year his -grandfather had settled here, coming from Chihuahua with all his goods -in ox-carts. "But it was soon after the time when the French killed -their king. My grandfather had heard talk of that before he left home, -and used to tell us boys about it when he was an old man." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps you have guessed that I am a Frenchman," said Father Latour. -</p> -<p> -No, they had not, but they felt sure he was not an American. José, the -elder grandson, had been watching the visitor uncertainly. He was a -handsome boy, with a triangle of black hair hanging over his rather -sullen eyes. He now spoke for the first time. -</p> -<p> -"They say at Albuquerque that now we are all Americans, but that is not -true, Padre. I will never be an American. They are infidels." -</p> -<p> -"Not all, my son. I have lived among Americans in the north for ten -years, and I found many devout Catholics." -</p> -<p> -The young man shook his head. "They destroyed our churches when they -were fighting us, and stabled their horses in them. And now they will -take our religion away from us. We want our own ways and our own -religion." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour began to tell them about his friendly relations with -Protestants in Ohio, but they had not room in their minds for two ideas; -there was one Church, and the rest of the world was infidel. One thing -they could understand; that he had here in his saddle-bags his -vestments, the altar stone, and all the equipment for celebrating the -Mass; and that to-morrow morning, after Mass, he would hear confessions, -baptize, and sanctify marriages. -</p> -<p> -After supper Father Latour took up a candle and began to examine the -holy images on the shelf over the fire-place. The wooden figures of the -saints, found in even the poorest Mexican houses, always interested him. -He had never yet seen two alike. These over Benito's fire-place had come -in the oxcarts from Chihuahua nearly sixty years ago. They had been -carved by some devout soul, and brightly painted, though the colours had -softened with time, and they were dressed in cloth, like dolls. They -were much more to his taste than the factory-made plaster images in his -mission churches in Ohio—more like the homely stone carvings on -the front of old parish churches in Auvergne. The wooden Virgin was a -sorrowing mother indeed,—long and stiff and severe, very long from -the neck to the waist, even longer from waist to feet, like some of the -rigid mosaics of the Eastern Church. She was dressed in black, with a -white apron, and a black reboso over her head, like a Mexican woman of -the poor. At her right was St. Joseph, and at her left a fierce little -equestrian figure, a saint wearing the costume of a Mexican -<i>ranchero</i>, velvet trousers richly embroidered and wide at the -ankle, velvet jacket and silk shirt, and a high-crowned, broad-brimmed -Mexican sombrero. He was attached to his fat horse by a wooden pivot -driven through the saddle. -</p> -<p> -The younger grandson saw the priest's interest in this figure. "That," -he said, "is my name saint, Santiago." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes; Santiago. He was a missionary, like me. In our country we call -him St. Jacques, and he carries a staff and a wallet—but here he -would need a horse, surely." -</p> -<p> -The boy looked at him in surprise. "But he is the saint of horses. Isn't -he that in your country?" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop shook his head. "No. I know nothing about that. How is he the -saint of horses?" -</p> -<p> -"He blesses the mares and makes them fruitful. Even the Indians believe -that. They know that if they neglect to pray to Santiago for a few -years, the foals do not come right." -</p> -<p> -A little later, after his devotions, the young Bishop lay down in -Benito's deep feather-bed, thinking how different was this night from -his anticipation of it. He had expected to make a dry camp in the -wilderness, and to sleep under a juniper tree, like the Prophet, -tormented by thirst. But here he lay in comfort and safety, with love -for his fellow creatures flowing like peace about his heart. If Father -Vaillant were here, he would say, "A miracle"; that the Holy Mother, to -whom he had addressed himself before the cruciform tree, had led him -hither. And it was a miracle, Father Latour knew that. But his dear -Joseph must always have the miracle very direct and spectacular, not -with Nature, but against it. He would almost be able to tell the colour -of the mantle Our Lady wore when She took the mare by the bridle back -yonder among the junipers and led her out of the pathless sand-hills, as -the angel led the ass on the Flight into Egypt. -</p> - -<div class="tb">* * *</div> - -<p> -In the late afternoon of the following day the Bishop was walking alone -along the banks of the life-giving stream, reviewing in his mind the -events of the morning. Benito and his daughter had made an altar before -the sorrowful wooden Virgin, and placed upon it candles and flowers. -Every soul in the village, except Salvatore's sick wife, had come to the -Mass. He had performed marriages and baptisms and heard confessions and -confirmed until noon. Then came the christening feast. José had killed -a kid the night before, and immediately after her confirmation Josepha -slipped away to help her sisters-in-law roast it. When Father Latour -asked her to give him his portion without chili, the girl inquired -whether it was more pious to eat it like that. He hastened to explain -that Frenchmen, as a rule, do not like high seasoning, lest she should -hereafter deprive herself of her favourite condiment. -</p> -<p> -After the feast the sleepy children were taken home, the men gathered in -the plaza to smoke under the great cottonwood trees. The Bishop, feeling -a need of solitude, had gone forth to walk, firmly refusing an escort. -On his way he passed the earthen thrashing-floor, where these people -beat out their grain and winnowed it in the wind, like the Children of -Israel. He heard a frantic bleating behind him, and was overtaken by -Pedro with the great flock of goats, indignant at their day's -confinement, and wild to be in the fringe of pasture along the hills. -They leaped the stream like arrows speeding from the bow, and regarded -the Bishop as they passed him with their mocking, humanly intelligent -smile. The young bucks were light and elegant in figure, with their -pointed chins and polished tilted horns. There was great variety in -their faces, but in nearly all something supercilious and sardonic. The -angoras had long silky hair of a dazzling whiteness. As they leaped -through the sunlight they brought to mind the chapter in the Apocalypse, -about the whiteness of them that were washed in the blood of the Lamb. -The young Bishop smiled at his mixed theology. But though the goat had -always been the symbol of pagan lewdness, he told himself that their -fleece had warmed many a good Christian, and their rich milk nourished -sickly children. -</p> -<p> -About a mile above the village he came upon the water-head, a spring -overhung by the sharp-leafed variety of cottonwood called water willow. -All about it crowded the oven-shaped hills,—nothing to hint of water -until it rose miraculously out of the parched and thirsty sea of sand. -Some subterranean stream found an outlet here, was released from -darkness. The result was grass and trees and flowers and human life; -household order and hearths from which the smoke of burning piñon logs -rose like incense to Heaven. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop sat a long time by the spring, while the declining sun poured -its beautifying light over those low, rose-tinted houses and bright -gardens. The old grandfather had shown him arrow-heads and corroded -medals, and a sword hilt, evidently Spanish, that he had found in the -earth near the water-head. This spot had been a refuge for humanity long -before these Mexicans had come upon it. It was older than history, like -those well-heads in his own country where the Roman settlers had set up -the image of a river goddess, and later the Christian priests had -planted a cross. This settlement was his Bishopric in miniature; -hundreds of square miles of thirsty desert, then a spring, a village, -old men trying to remember their catechism to teach their grandchildren. -The Faith planted by the Spanish friars and watered with their blood was -not dead; it awaited only the toil of the husbandman. He was not -troubled about the revolt in Santa Fé, or the powerful old native -priest who led it—Father Martinez, of Taos, who had ridden over from -his parish expressly to receive the new Vicar and to drive him away. He -was rather terrifying, that old priest, with his big head, violent -Spanish face, and shoulders like a buffalo; but the day of his tyranny -was almost over. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE BISHOP <i>CHEZ LUI</i></b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T was the late afternoon of Christmas Day, -and the Bishop sat at his desk writing letters. Since his return to -Santa Fé his official correspondence had been heavy; but the -closely-written sheets over which he bent with a thoughtful smile were -not to go to Monsignori, or to Archbishops, or to the heads of religious -houses,—but to France, to Auvergne, to his own little town; to a -certain grey, winding street, paved with cobbles and shaded by tall -chestnuts on which, even to-day, some few brown leaves would be -clinging, or dropping one by one, to be caught in the cold green ivy on -the walls. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop had returned from his long horseback trip into Mexico only -nine days ago. At Durango the old Mexican prelate there had, after some -delay, delivered to him the documents that defined his Vicarate, and -Father Latour rode back the fifteen hundred miles to Santa Fé through -the sunny days of early winter. On his arrival he found amity instead of -enmity awaiting him. Father Vaillant had already endeared himself to the -people. The Mexican priest who was in charge of the pro-cathedral had -gracefully retired—gone to visit his family in Old Mexico, and -carried his effects along with him. Father Vaillant had taken possession -of the priest's house, and with the help of carpenters and the Mexican -women of the parish had put it in order. The Yankee traders and the -military Commandant at Fort Marcy had sent generous contributions of -bedding and blankets and odd pieces of furniture. -</p> -<p> -The Episcopal residence was an old adobe house, much out of repair, but -with possibilities of comfort. Father Latour had chosen for his study a -room at one end of the wing. There he sat, as this afternoon of -Christmas Day faded into evening. It was a long room of an agreeable -shape. The thick clay walls had been finished on the inside by the deft -palms of Indian women, and had that irregular and intimate quality of -things made entirely by the human hand. There was a reassuring solidity -and depth about those walls, rounded at door-sills and window-sills, -rounded in wide wings about the corner fire-place. The interior had been -newly whitewashed in the Bishop's absence, and the flicker of the fire -threw a rosy glow over the wavy surfaces, never quite evenly flat, never -a dead white, for the ruddy colour of the clay underneath gave a warm -tone to the lime wash. The ceiling was made of heavy cedar beams, -overlaid by aspen saplings, all of one size, lying close together like -the ribs in corduroy and clad in their ruddy inner skins. The earth -floor was covered with thick Indian blankets; two blankets, very old, -and beautiful in design and colour, were hung on the walls like -tapestries. -</p> -<p> -On either side of the fire-place plastered recesses were let into the -wall. In one, narrow and arched, stood the Bishop's crucifix. The other -was square, with a carved wooden door, like a grill, and within it lay a -few rare and beautiful books. The rest of the Bishop's library was on -open shelves at one end of the room. -</p> -<p> -The furniture of the house Father Vaillant had bought from the departed -Mexican priest. It was heavy and somewhat clumsy, but not unsightly. All -the wood used in making tables and bedsteads was hewn from tree boles -with the ax or hatchet. Even the thick planks on which the Bishop's -theological books rested were ax-dressed. There was not at that time a -turning-lathe or a saw-mill in all northern New Mexico. The native -carpenters whittled out chair rungs and table legs, and fitted them -together with wooden pins instead of iron nails. Wooden chests were used -in place of dressers with drawers, and sometimes these were beautifully -carved, or covered with decorated leather. The desk at which the Bishop -sat writing was an importation, a walnut "secretary" of American make -(sent down by one of the officers of the Fort at Father Vaillant's -suggestion). His silver candlesticks he had brought from France long -ago. They were given to him by a beloved aunt when he was ordained. -</p> -<p> -The young Bishop's pen flew over the paper, leaving a trail of fine, -finished French script behind, in violet ink. -</p> -<p> -"My new study, dear brother, as I write, is full of the delicious -fragrance of the piñon logs burning in my fire-place. (We use this kind -of cedar-wood altogether for fuel, and it is highly aromatic, yet -delicate. At our meanest tasks we have a perpetual odour of incense -about us.) I wish that you, and my dear sister, could look in upon this -scene of comfort and peace. We missionaries wear a frock-coat and -wide-brimmed hat all day, you know, and look like American traders. What -a pleasure to come home at night and put on my old cassock! I feel more -like a priest then—for so much of the day I must be a 'business -man'!—and, for some reason, more like a Frenchman. All day I am an -American in speech and thought—yes, in heart, too. The kindness of -the American traders, and especially of the military officers at the Fort, -commands more than a superficial loyalty. I mean to help the officers at -their task here. I can assist them more than they realize. The Church -can do more than the Fort to make these poor Mexicans 'good Americans.' -And it is for the people's good; there is no other way in which they can -better their condition. -</p> -<p> -"But this is not the day to write you of my duties or my purposes. -To-night we are exiles, happy ones, thinking of home. Father Joseph has -sent away our Mexican woman,—he will make a good cook of her in time, -but to-night he is preparing our Christmas dinner himself. I had thought -he would be worn out to-day, for he has been conducting a Novena of High -Masses, as is the custom here before Christmas. After the Novena, and -the midnight Mass last night, I supposed he would be willing to rest -to-day; but not a bit of it. You know his motto, 'Rest in action.' I -brought him a bottle of olive-oil on my horse all the way from Durango -(I say 'olive-oil,' because here 'oil' means something to grease the -wheels of wagons!), and he is making some sort of cooked salad. We have -no green vegetables here in winter, and no one seems ever to have heard -of that blessed plant, the lettuce. Joseph finds it hard to do without -salad-oil, he always had it in Ohio, though it was a great extravagance. -He has been in the kitchen all afternoon. There is only an open -fire-place for cooking, and an earthen roasting-oven out in the -courtyard. But he has never failed me in anything yet; and I think I can -promise you that to-night two Frenchmen will sit down to a good dinner -and drink your health." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop laid down his pen and lit his two candles with a splinter -from the fire, then stood dusting his fingers by the deep-set window, -looking out at the pale blue darkening sky. The evening-star hung above -the amber afterglow, so soft, so brilliant that she seemed to bathe in -her own silver light. <i>Ave Maris Stella</i>, the song which one of his -friends at the Seminary used to intone so beautifully; humming it softly -he returned to his desk and was just dipping his pen in the ink when the -door opened, and a voice said, -</p> -<p> -"<i>Monseigneur est servi! Alors, Jean, veux-tu apporter les bougies.</i>" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop carried the candles into the dining-room, where the table was -laid and Father Vaillant was changing his cook's apron for his cassock. -Crimson from standing over an open fire, his rugged face was even -homelier than usual—though one of the first things a stranger decided -upon meeting Father Joseph was that the Lord had made few uglier men. He -was short, skinny, bow-legged from a life on horseback, and his -countenance had little to recommend it but kindliness and vivacity. He -looked old, though he was then about forty. His skin was hardened and -seamed by exposure to weather in a bitter climate, his neck scrawny and -wrinkled like an old man's. A bold, blunt-tipped nose, positive chin, a -very large mouth,—the lips thick and succulent but never loose, never -relaxed, always stiffened by effort or working with excitement. His -hair, sunburned to the shade of dry hay, had originally been -tow-coloured; "<i>Blanchet</i>" ("Whitey") he was always called at the -Seminary. Even his eyes were near-sighted, and of such a pale, watery -blue as to be unimpressive. There was certainly nothing in his outer -case to suggest the fierceness and fortitude and fire of the man, and -yet even the thick-blooded Mexican half-breeds knew his quality at once. -If the Bishop returned to find Santa Fé friendly to him, it was because -everybody believed in Father Vaillant—homely, real, persistent, with -the driving power of a dozen men in his poorly built body. -</p> -<p> -On coming into the dining-room, Bishop Latour placed his candlesticks -over the fire-place, since there were already six upon the table, -illuminating the brown soup-pot. After they had stood for a moment in -prayer, Father Joseph lifted the cover and ladled the soup into the -plates, a dark onion soup with croutons. The Bishop tasted it critically -and smiled at his companion. After the spoon had travelled to his lips a -few times, he put it down and leaning back in his chair remarked, -</p> -<p> -"Think of it, <i>Blanchet</i>; in all this vast country between the -Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean, there is probably not another human -being who could make a soup like this." -</p> -<p> -"Not unless he is a Frenchman," said Father Joseph. He had tucked a -napkin over the front of his cassock and was losing no time in -reflection. -</p> -<p> -"I am not deprecating your individual talent, Joseph," the Bishop -continued, "but, when one thinks of it, a soup like this is not the work -of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There -are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph frowned intently at the earthen pot in the middle of the -table. His pale, near-sighted eyes had always the look of peering into -distance. "<i>C'est ça, c'est vrai</i>," he murmured. "But how," he -exclaimed as he filled the Bishop's plate again, "how can a man make a -proper soup without leeks, that king of vegetables? We cannot go on -eating onions for ever." -</p> -<p> -After carrying away the <i>soupière</i>, he brought in the roast -chicken and <i>pommes sautées</i>. "And salad, Jean," he continued as -he began to carve. "Are we to eat dried beans and roots for the rest of -our lives? Surely we must find time to make a garden. Ah, my garden at -Sandusky! And you could snatch me away from it! You will admit that you -never ate better lettuces in France. And my vineyard; a natural habitat -for the vine, that. I tell you, the shores of Lake Erie will be covered -with vineyards one day. I envy the man who is drinking my wine. Ah well, -that is a missionary's life; to plant where another shall reap." -</p> -<p> -As this was Christmas Day, the two friends were speaking in their native -tongue. For years they had made it a practice to speak English together, -except upon very special occasions, and of late they conversed in -Spanish, in which they both needed to gain fluency. -</p> -<p> -"And yet sometimes you used to chafe a little at your dear Sandusky and -its comforts," the Bishop reminded him—"to say that you would end a -home-staying parish priest, after all." -</p> -<p> -"Of course, one wants to eat one's cake and have it, as they say in -Ohio. But no farther, Jean. This is far enough. Do not drag me any -farther." Father Joseph began gently to coax the cork from a bottle of -red wine with his fingers. "This I begged for your dinner at the -hacienda where I went to baptize the baby on St. Thomas's Day. It is not -easy to separate these rich Mexicans from their French wine. They know -its worth." He poured a few drops and tried it. "A slight taste of the -cork; they do not know how to keep it properly. However, it is quite -good enough for missionaries." -</p> -<p> -"You ask me not to drag you any farther, Joseph. I wish," Bishop Latour -leaned back in his chair and locked his hands together beneath his chin, -"I wish I knew how far this is! Does anyone know the extent of this -diocese, or of this territory? The Commandant at the Fort seems as much -in the dark as I. He says I can get some information from the scout, Kit -Carson, who lives at Taos." -</p> -<p> -"Don't begin worrying about the diocese, Jean. For the present, Santa -Fé is the diocese. Establish order at home. To-morrow I will have a -reckoning with the churchwardens, who allowed that band of drunken -cowboys to come in to the midnight Mass and defile the font. There is -enough to do here. <i>Festina lente</i>. I have made a resolve not to go -more than three days' journey from Santa Fé for one year." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled and shook his head. "And when you were at the -Seminary, you made a resolve to lead a life of contemplation." -</p> -<p> -A light leaped into Father Joseph's homely face. "I have not yet -renounced that hope. One day you will release me, and I will return to -some religious house in France and end my days in devotion to the Holy -Mother. For the time being, it is my destiny to serve Her in action. But -this is far enough, Jean." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop again shook his head and murmured, "Who knows how far?" -</p> -<p> -The vary little priest whose life was to be a succession of mountain -ranges, pathless deserts, yawning canyons and swollen rivers, who was to -carry the Cross into territories yet unknown and unnamed, who would wear -down mules and horses and scouts and stage-drivers, to-night looked -apprehensively at his superior and repeated, "No more, Jean. This is far -enough." Then making haste to change the subject, he said briskly, "A -bean salad was the best I could do for you; but with onion, and just a -suspicion of salt pork, it is not so bad." -</p> -<p> -Over the compote of dried plums they fell to talking of the great yellow -ones that grew in the old Latour garden at home. Their thoughts met in -that tilted cobble street, winding down a hill, with the uneven garden -walls and tall horse-chestnuts on either side; a lonely street after -nightfall, with soft street lamps shaped like lanterns at the darkest -turnings. At the end of it was the church where the Bishop made his -first Communion, with a grove of flat-cut plane trees in front, under -which the market was held on Tuesdays and Fridays. -</p> -<p> -While they lingered over these memories—an indulgence they seldom -permitted themselves—the two missionaries were startled by a volley -of rifle-shots and blood-curdling yells without, and the galloping of -horses. The Bishop half rose, but Father Joseph reassured him with a -shrug. -</p> -<p> -"Do not discompose yourself. The same thing happened here on the eve of -All Souls' Day. A band of drunken cowboys, like those who came into the -church last night, go out to the pueblo and get the Tesuque Indian boys -drunk, and then they ride in to serenade the soldiers at the Fort in -this manner." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b> -<br><br> -<b>A BELL AND A MIRACLE</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>N the morning after the Bishop's return -from Durango, after his first night in his Episcopal residence, he had a -pleasant awakening from sleep. He had ridden into the courtyard after -nightfall, having changed horses at a <i>rancho</i> and pushed on nearly -sixty miles in order to reach home. Consequently he slept late the next -morning—did not awaken until six o'clock, when he heard the -Angelus ringing. He recovered consciousness slowly, unwilling to let go -of a pleasing delusion that he was in Rome. Still half believing that he -was lodged near St. John Lateran, he yet heard every stroke of the Ave -Maria bell, marvelling to hear it rung correctly (nine quick strokes in -all, divided into threes, with an interval between); and from a bell -with beautiful tone. Full, clear, with something bland and suave, each -note floated through the air like a globe of silver. Before the nine -strokes were done Rome faded, and behind it he sensed something Eastern, -with palm trees,—Jerusalem, perhaps, though he had never been -there. Keeping his eyes closed, he cherished for a moment this sudden, -pervasive sense of the East. Once before he had been carried out of the -body thus to a place far away. It had happened in a street in New -Orleans. He had turned a corner and come upon an old woman with a basket -of yellow flowers; sprays of yellow sending out a honey-sweet perfume. -Mimosa—but before he could think of the name he was overcome by a -feeling of place, was dropped, cassock and all, into a garden in the -south of France where he had been sent one winter in his childhood to -recover from an illness. And now this silvery bell note had carried him -farther and faster than sound could travel. -</p> -<p> -When he joined Father Vaillant at coffee, that impetuous man who could -never keep a secret asked him anxiously whether he had heard anything. -</p> -<p> -"I thought I heard the Angelus, Father Joseph, but my reason tells me -that only a long sea voyage could bring me within sound of such a bell." -</p> -<p> -"Not at all," said Father Joseph briskly. "I found that remarkable bell -here, in the basement of old San Miguel. They tell me it has been here a -hundred years or more. There is no church tower in the place strong -enough to hold it—it is very thick and must weigh close upon eight -hundred pounds. But I had a scaffolding built in the churchyard, and -with the help of oxen we raised it and got it swung on crossbeams. I -taught a Mexican boy to ring it properly against your return." -</p> -<p> -"But how could it have come here? It is Spanish, I suppose?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, the inscription is in Spanish, to St. Joseph, and the date is -1356. It must have been brought up from Mexico City in an ox-cart. A -heroic undertaking, certainly. Nobody knows where it was cast. But they -do tell a story about it: that it was pledged to St. Joseph in the wars -with the Moors, and that the people of some besieged city brought all -their plate and silver and gold ornaments and threw them in with the -baser metals. There is certainly a good deal of silver in the bell, -nothing else would account for its tone." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour reflected. "And the silver of the Spaniards was really -Moorish, was it not? If not actually of Moorish make, copied from their -design. The Spaniards knew nothing about working silver except as they -learned it from the Moors." -</p> -<p> -"What are you doing, Jean? Trying to make my bell out an infidel?" -Father Joseph asked impatiently. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled. "I am trying to account for the fact that when I -heard it this morning it struck me at once as something oriental. A -learned Scotch Jesuit in Montreal told me that our first bells, and the -introduction of the bell in the service all over Europe, originally came -from the East. He said the Templars brought the Angelus back from the -Crusades, and it is really an adaptation of a Moslem custom." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sniffed. "I notice that scholars always manage to dig -out something belittling," he complained. -</p> -<p> -"Belittling? I should say the reverse. I am glad to think there is -Moorish silver in your bell. When we first came here, the one good -workman we found in Santa Fé was a silversmith. The Spaniards handed on -their skill to the Mexicans, and the Mexicans have taught the Navajos to -work silver; but it all came from the Moors." -</p> -<p> -"I am no scholar, as you know," said Father Vaillant rising. "And this -morning we have many practical affairs to occupy us. I have promised -that you will give an audience to a good old man, a native priest from -the Indian mission at Santa Clara, who is returning from Mexico. He has -just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and -has been much edified. He would like to tell you the story of his -experience. It seems that ever since he was ordained he has desired to -visit the shrine. During your absence I have found how particularly -precious is that shrine to all Catholics in New Mexico. They regard it -as the one absolutely authenticated appearance of the Blessed Virgin in -the New World, and a witness of Her affection for Her Church on this -continent." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop went into his study, and Father Vaillant brought in Padre -Escolastico Herrera, a man of nearly seventy, who had been forty years -in the ministry, and had just accomplished the pious desire of a -lifetime. His mind was still full of the sweetness of his late -experience. He was so rapt that nothing else interested him. He asked -anxiously whether perhaps the Bishop would have more leisure to attend -to him later in the day. But Father Latour placed a chair for him and -told him to proceed. -</p> -<p> -The old man thanked him for the privilege of being seated. Leaning -forward, with his hands locked between his knees, he told the whole -story of the miraculous appearance, both because it was so dear to his -heart, and because he was sure that no "American" Bishop would have -heard of the occurrence as it was, though at Rome all the details were -well known and two Popes had sent gifts to the shrine. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -On Saturday, December 9th, in the year 1531, a poor neophyte of the -monastery of St. James was hurrying down Tapeyac hill to attend Mass in -the City of Mexico. His name was Juan Diego and he was fifty-five years -old. When he was half way down the hill a light shone in his path, and -the Mother of God appeared to him as a young woman of great beauty, clad -in blue and gold. She greeted him by name and said: -</p> -<p> -"Juan, seek out thy Bishop and bid him build a church in my honour on -the spot where I now stand. Go then, and I will bide here and await thy -return." -</p> -<p> -Brother Juan ran into the City and straight to the Bishop's palace, -where he reported the matter. The Bishop was Zumarraga, a Spaniard. He -questioned the monk severely and told him he should have required a sign -of the Lady to assure him that she was indeed the Mother of God and not -some evil spirit. He dismissed the poor brother harshly and set an -attendant to watch his actions. -</p> -<p> -Juan went forth very downcast and repaired to the house of his uncle, -Bernardino, who was sick of a fever. The two succeeding days he spent in -caring for this aged man who seemed at the point of death. Because of -the Bishop's reproof he had fallen into doubt, and did not return to the -spot where the Lady said She would await him. On Tuesday he left the -City to go back to his monastery to fetch medicines for Bernardino, but -he avoided the place where he had seen the vision and went by another -way. -</p> -<p> -Again he saw a light in his path and the Virgin appeared to him as -before, saying, "Juan, why goest thou by this way?" -</p> -<p> -Weeping, he told Her that the Bishop had distrusted his report, and that -he had been employed in caring for his uncle, who was sick unto death. -The Lady spoke to him with all comfort, telling him that his uncle would -be healed within the hour, and that he should return to Bishop Zumarraga -and bid him build a church where She had first appeared to him. It must -be called the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, after Her dear shrine of -that name in Spain. When Brother Juan replied to Her that the Bishop -required a sign, She said: "Go up on the rocks yonder, and gather -roses." -</p> -<p> -Though it was December and not the season for roses, he ran up among the -rocks and found such roses as he had never seen before. He gathered them -until he had filled his <i>tilma</i>. The <i>tilma</i> was a mantle worn -only by the very poor,—a wretched garment loosely woven of coarse -vegetable fibre and sewn down the middle. When he returned to the -apparition, She bent over the flowers and took pains to arrange them, -then closed the ends of the <i>tilma</i> together and said to him: -</p> -<p> -"Go now, and do not open your mantle until you open it before your -Bishop." -</p> -<p> -Juan sped into the City and gained admission to the Bishop, who was in -council with his Vicar. -</p> -<p> -"Your Grace," he said, "the Blessed Lady who appeared to me has sent you -these roses for a sign." -</p> -<p> -At this he held up one end of his <i>tilma</i> and let the roses fall in -profusion to the floor. To his astonishment, Bishop Zumarraga and his -Vicar instantly fell upon their knees among the flowers. On the inside -of his poor mantle was a painting of the Blessed Virgin, in robes of -blue and rose and gold, exactly as She had appeared to him upon the -hill-side. -</p> -<p> -A shrine was built to contain this miraculous portrait, which since that -day has been the goal of countless pilgrimages and has performed many -miracles. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Of this picture Padre Escolastico had much to say: he affirmed that it -was of marvellous beauty, rich with gold, and the colours as pure and -delicate as the tints of early morning. Many painters had visited the -shrine and marvelled that paint could be laid at all upon such poor and -coarse material. In the ordinary way of nature, the flimsy mantle would -have fallen to pieces long ago. The Padre modestly presented Bishop -Latour and Father Joseph with little medals he had brought from the -shrine; on one side a relief of the miraculous portrait, on the other an -inscription: <i>Non fecit taliter omni nationi</i>. (<i>She hath not dealt -so with any nation</i>.) -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant was deeply stirred by the priest's recital, and after -the old man had gone he declared to the Bishop that he meant himself to -make a pilgrimage to this shrine at the earliest opportunity. -</p> -<p> -"What a priceless thing for the poor converts of a savage country!" he -exclaimed, wiping his glasses, which were clouded by his strong feeling. -"All these poor Catholics who have been so long without instruction have -at least the reassurance of that visitation. It is a household word with -them that their Blessed Mother revealed Herself in their own country, to -a poor convert. Doctrine is well enough for the wise, Jean; but the -miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant began pacing restlessly up and down as he spoke, and the -Bishop watched him, musing. It was just this in his friend that was dear -to him. "Where there is great love there are always miracles," he said -at length. "One might almost say that an apparition is human vision -corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I -see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to -me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming -suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made -finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what -is there about us always." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap02"></a>BOOK TWO -<br><br> -<i>MISSIONARY JOURNEYS</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE WHITE MULES</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N mid-March, Father Vaillant was on the -road, returning from a missionary journey to Albuquerque. He was to stop -at the <i>rancho</i> of a rich Mexican, Manuel Lujon, to marry his men -and maid servants who were living in concubinage, and to baptize the -children. There he would spend the night. To-morrow or the day after he -would go on to Santa Fé, halting by the way at the Indian pueblo of -Santo Domingo to hold service. There was a fine old mission church at -Santo Domingo, but the Indians were of a haughty and suspicious -disposition. He had said Mass there on his way to Albuquerque, nearly a -week ago. By dint of canvassing from house to house, and offering medals -and religious colour prints to all who came to church, he had got -together a considerable congregation. It was a large and prosperous -pueblo, set among clean sand-hills, with its rich irrigated farm lands -lying just below, in the valley of the Rio Grande. His congregation was -quiet, dignified, attentive. They sat on the earth floor, wrapped in -their best blankets, repose in every line of their strong, stubborn -backs. He harangued them in such Spanish as he could command, and they -listened with respect. But bring their children to be baptized, they -would not. The Spaniards had treated them very badly long ago, and they -had been meditating upon their grievance for many generations. Father -Vaillant had not baptized one infant there, but he meant to stop -to-morrow and try again. Then back to his Bishop, provided he could get -his horse up La Bajada Hill. -</p> -<p> -He had bought his horse from a Yankee trader and had been woefully -deceived. One week's journey of from twenty to thirty miles a day had -shown the beast up for a wind-broken wreck. Father Vaillant's mind was -full of material cares as he approached Manuel Lujon's place beyond -Bernalillo. The <i>rancho</i> was like a little town, with all its stables, -corrals, and stake fences. The <i>casa grande</i> was long and low, with -glass windows and bright blue doors, a <i>portale</i> running its full -length, supported by blue posts. Under this <i>portale</i> the adobe wall -was hung with bridles, saddles, great boots and spurs, guns and saddle -blankets, strings of red peppers, fox skins, and the skins of two great -rattlesnakes. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When Father Vaillant rode in through the gateway, children came running -from every direction, some with no clothing but a little shirt, and -women with no shawls over their black hair came running after the -children. They all disappeared when Manuel Lujon walked out of the great -house, hat in hand, smiling and hospitable. He was a man of thirty-five, -settled in figure and somewhat full under the chin. He greeted the -priest in the name of God and put out a hand to help him alight, but -Father Vaillant sprang quickly to the ground. -</p> -<p> -"God be with you, Manuel, and with your house. But where are those who -are to be married?" -</p> -<p> -"The men are all in the field, Padre. There is no hurry. A little wine, -a little bread, coffee, repose—and then the ceremonies." -</p> -<p> -"A little wine, very willingly, and bread, too. But not until afterward. -I meant to catch you all at dinner, but I am two hours late because my -horse is bad. Have someone bring in my saddle-bags, and I will put on my -vestments. Send out to the fields for your men, Señor Lujon. A man can -stop work to be married." -</p> -<p> -The swarthy host was dazed by this dispatch. "But one moment, Padre. -There are all the children to baptize; why not begin with them, if I -cannot persuade you to wash the dust from your sainted brow and repose a -little." -</p> -<p> -"Take me to a place where I can wash and change my clothes, and I will -be ready before you can get them here. No, I tell you, Lujon, the -marriages first, the baptisms afterward; that order is but Christian. I -will baptize the children to-morrow morning, and their parents will at -least have been married over night." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph was conducted to his chamber, and the older boys were sent -running off across the fields to fetch the men. Lujon and his two daughters -began constructing an altar at one end of the <i>sala</i>. Two old -women came to scrub the floor, and another brought chairs and stools. -</p> -<p> -"My God, but he is ugly, the Padre!" whispered one of these to the -others. "He must be very holy. And did you see the great wart he has on -his chin? My grandmother could take that away for him if she were alive, -poor soul! Somebody ought to tell him about the holy mud at Chimayo. -That mud might dry it up. But there is nobody left now who can take -warts away." -</p> -<p> -"No, the times are not so good any more," the other agreed. "And I doubt -if all this marrying will make them any better. Of what use is it to -marry people after they have lived together and had children? and the -man is maybe thinking about another woman, like Pablo. I saw him coming -out of the brush with that oldest girl of Trinidad's, only Sunday -night." -</p> -<p> -The reappearance of the priest upon the scene cut short further scandal. -He knelt down before the improvised altar and began his private -devotions. The women tiptoed away. Señor Lujon himself went out toward -the servants' quarters to hurry the candidates for the marriage -sacrament. The women were giggling and snatching up their best shawls. -Some of the men had even washed their hands. The household crowded into -the <i>sala</i>, and Father Vaillant married couples with great dispatch. -</p> -<p> -"To-morrow morning, the baptisms," he announced. "And the mothers see to -it that the children are clean, and that there are sponsors for all." -</p> -<p> -After he had resumed his travelling-clothes, Father Joseph asked his -host at what hour he dined, remarking that he had been fasting since an -early breakfast. -</p> -<p> -"We eat when it is ready—a little after sunset, usually. I have had a -young lamb killed for your Reverence." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph kindled with interest. "Ah, and how will it be cooked?" -</p> -<p> -Señor Lujon shrugged. "Cooked? Why, they put it in a pot with chili, -and some onions, I suppose." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, that is the point. I have had too much stewed mutton. Will you -permit me to go into the kitchen and cook my portion in my own way?" -</p> -<p> -Lujon waved his hand. "My house is yours, Padre. Into the kitchen I -never go—too many women. But there it is, and the woman in charge is -named Rosa." -</p> -<p> -When the Father entered the kitchen he found a crowd of women discussing -the marriages. They quickly dispersed, leaving old Rosa by her -fire-place, where hung a kettle from which issued the savour of cooking -mutton fat, all too familiar to Father Joseph. He found a half sheep -hanging outside the door, covered with a bloody sack, and asked Rosa to -heat the oven for him, announcing that he meant to roast the hind leg. -</p> -<p> -"But Padre, I baked before the marriages. The oven is almost cold. It -will take an hour to heat it, and it is only two hours till supper." -</p> -<p> -"Very well. I can cook my roast in an hour." -</p> -<p> -"Cook a roast in an hour!" cried the old woman. "Mother of God, Padre, -the blood will not be dried in it!" -</p> -<p> -"Not if I can help it!" said Father Joseph fiercely. "Now hurry with the -fire, my good woman." -</p> -<p> -When the Padre carved his roast at the supper-table, the serving-girls -stood behind his chair and looked with horror at the delicate stream of -pink juice that followed the knife. Manuel Lujon took a slice for -politeness, but he did not eat it. Father Vaillant had his <i>gigot</i> to -himself. -</p> -<p> -All the men and boys sat down at the long table with the host, the women -and children would eat later. Father Joseph and Lujon, at one end, had a -bottle of white Bordeaux between them. It had been brought from Mexico -City on mule-back, Lujon said. They were discussing the road back to -Santa Fé, and when the missionary remarked that he would stop at Santo -Domingo, the host asked him why he did not get a horse there. "I am -afraid you will hardly get back to Santa Fé on your own. The pueblo is -famous for breeding good horses. You might make a trade." -</p> -<p> -"No," said Father Vaillant. "Those Indians are of a sullen disposition. -If I were to have dealings with them, they would suspect my motives. If -we are to save their souls, we must make it clear that we want no profit -for ourselves, as I told Father Gallegos in Albuquerque." -</p> -<p> -Manuel Lujon laughed and glanced down the table at his men, who were all -showing their white teeth. "You said that to the Padre at Albuquerque? -You have courage. He is a rich man, Padre Gallegos. All the same, I -respect him. I have played poker with him. He is a great gambler and -takes his losses like a man. He stops at nothing, plays like an -American." -</p> -<p> -"And I," retorted Father Joseph, "I have not much respect for a priest -who either plays cards or manages to get rich." -</p> -<p> -"Then you do not play?" asked Lujon. "I am disappointed. I had hoped we -could have a game after supper. The evenings are dull enough here. You -do not even play dominoes?" -</p> -<p> -"Ah, that is another matter!" Father Joseph declared. "A game of -dominoes, there by the fire, with coffee, or some of that excellent -grape brandy you allowed me to taste, that I would find refreshing. And -tell me, Manuelito, where do you get that brandy? It is like a French -liqueur." -</p> -<p> -"It is well seasoned. It was made at Bernalillo in my grandfather's -time. They make it there still, but it is not so good now." -</p> -<p> -The next morning, after coffee, while the children were being got ready -for baptism, the host took Father Vaillant through his corrals and -stables to show him his stock. He exhibited with peculiar pride two -cream-coloured mules, stalled side by side. With his own hand he led -them out of the stable, in order to display to advantage their handsome -coats,—not bluish white, as with white horses, but a rich, deep -ivory, that in shadow changed to fawn-colour. Their tails were clipped -at the end into the shape of bells. -</p> -<p> -"Their names," said Lujon, "are Contento and Angelica, and they are as -good as their names. It seems that God has given them intelligence. When -I talk to them, they look up at me like Christians; they are very -companionable. They are always ridden together and have a great -affection for each other." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph took one by the halter and led it about. "Ah, but they are -rare creatures! I have never seen a mule or horse coloured like a young -fawn before." To his host's astonishment, the wiry little priest sprang -upon Contento's back with the agility of a grasshopper. The mule, too, -was astonished. He shook himself violently, bolted toward the gate of -the barnyard, and at the gate stopped suddenly. Since this did not throw -his rider, he seemed satisfied, trotted back, and stood placidly beside -Angelica. -</p> -<p> -"But you are a <i>caballero</i>, Father Vaillant!" Lujon exclaimed. "I -doubt if Father Gallegos would have kept his seat—though he is -something of a hunter." -</p> -<p> -"The saddle is to be my home in your country, Lujon. What an easy gait -this mule has, and what a narrow back! I notice that especially. For a -man with short legs, like me, it is a punishment to ride eight hours a -day on a wide horse. And this I must do day after day. From here I go to -Santa Fé, and, after a day in conference with the Bishop, I start for -Mora." -</p> -<p> -"For Mora?" exclaimed Lujon. "Yes, that is far, and the roads are very -bad. On your mare you will never do it. She will drop dead under you." -While he talked, the Father remained upon the mule's back, stroking him -with his hand. -</p> -<p> -"Well, I have no other. God grant that she does not drop somewhere far -from food and water. I can carry very little with me except my vestments -and the sacred vessels." -</p> -<p> -The Mexican had been growing more and more thoughtful, as if he were -considering something profound and not altogether cheerful. Suddenly his -brow cleared, and he turned to the priest with a radiant smile, quite -boyish in its simplicity. "Father Vaillant," he burst out in a slightly -oratorical manner, "you have made my house right with Heaven, and you -charge me very little. I will do something very nice for you; I will -give you Contento for a present, and I hope to be particularly -remembered in your prayers." -</p> -<p> -Springing to the ground, Father Vaillant threw his arms about his host. -"Manuelito!" he cried, "for this darling mule I think I could almost -pray you into Heaven!" -</p> -<p> -The Mexican laughed, too, and warmly returned the embrace. Arm-in-arm -they went in to begin the baptisms. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The next morning, when Lujon went to call Father Vaillant for breakfast, -he found him in the barnyard, leading the two mules about and smoothing -their fawn-coloured flanks, but his face was not the cheerful -countenance of yesterday. -</p> -<p> -"Manuel," he said at once, "I cannot accept your present. I have thought -upon it over night, and I see that I cannot. The Bishop works as hard as -I do, and his horse is little better than mine. You know he lost -everything on his way out here, in a shipwreck at Galveston,—among -the rest a fine wagon he had had built for travel on these plains. I could -not go about on a mule like this when my Bishop rides a common hack. It -would be inappropriate. I must ride away on my old mare." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Padre?" Manuel looked troubled and somewhat aggrieved. Why should -the Padre spoil everything? It had all been very pleasant yesterday, and -he had felt like a prince of generosity. "I doubt if she will make La -Bajada Hill," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Look my horses over and -take the one that suits you. They are all better than yours." -</p> -<p> -"No, no," said Father Vaillant decidedly. "Having seen these mules, I -want nothing else. They are the colour of pearls, really! I will raise -the price of marriages until I can buy this pair from you. A missionary -must depend upon his mount for companionship in his lonely life. I want -a mule that can look at me like a Christian, as you said of these." -</p> -<p> -Señor Lujon sighed and looked about his barnyard as if he were trying -to find some escape from this situation. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph turned to him with vehemence. "If I were a rich -<i>ranchero</i>, like you, Manuel, I would do a splendid thing; I would -furnish the two mounts that are to carry the word of God about this -heathen country, and then I would say to myself: <i>There go my Bishop and -my Vicario, on my beautiful cream-coloured mules</i>." -</p> -<p> -"So be it, Padre," said Lujon with a mournful smile. "But I ought to get -a good many prayers. On my whole estate there is nothing I prize like -those two. True, they might pine if they were parted for long. They have -never been separated, and they have a great affection for each other. -Mules, as you know, have strong affections. It is hard for me to give -them up." -</p> -<p> -"You will be all the happier for that, Manuelito," Father Joseph cried -heartily. "Every time you think of these mules, you will feel pride in -your good deed." -</p> -<p> -Soon after breakfast Father Vaillant departed, riding Contento, with -Angelica trotting submissively behind, and from his gate Señor Lujon -watched them disconsolately until they disappeared. He felt he had been -worried out of his mules, and yet he bore no resentment. He did not -doubt Father Joseph's devotedness, nor his singleness of purpose. After -all, a Bishop was a Bishop, and a Vicar was a Vicar, and it was not to -their discredit that they worked like a pair of common parish priests. -He believed he would be proud of the fact that they rode Contento and -Angelica. Father Vaillant had forced his hand, but he was rather glad of -it. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE LONELY ROAD TO MORA</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Bishop and his Vicar were riding -through the rain in the Truchas mountains. The heavy, lead-coloured -drops were driven slantingly through the air by an icy wind from the -peak. These raindrops, Father Latour kept thinking, were the shape of -tadpoles, and they broke against his nose and cheeks, exploding with a -splash, as if they were hollow and full of air. The priests were riding -across high mountain meadows, which in a few weeks would be green, -though just now they were slate-coloured. On every side lay ridges -covered with blue-green fir trees; above them rose the horny backbones -of mountains. The sky was very low; purplish lead-coloured clouds let -down curtains of mist into the valleys between the pine ridges. There -was not a glimmer of white light in the dark vapours working -overhead—rather, they took on the cold green of the evergreens. -Even the white mules, their coats wet and matted into tufts, had turned -a slaty hue, and the faces of the two priests were purple and spotted in -that singular light. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour rode first, sitting straight upon his mule, with his chin -lowered just enough to keep the drive of rain out of his eyes. Father -Vaillant followed, unable to see much,—in weather like this his -glasses were of no use, and he had taken them off. He crouched down in -the saddle, his shoulders well over Contento's neck. Father Joseph's -sister, Philomène, who was Mother Superior of a convent in her native -town in the Puy-de-Dôm, often tried to picture her brother and Bishop -Latour on these long missionary journeys of which he wrote her; she -imagined the scene and saw the two priests moving through it in their -cassocks, bare-headed, like the pictures of St. Francis Xavier with -which she was familiar. The reality was less picturesque,—but for -all that, no one could have mistaken these two men for hunters or -traders. They wore clerical collars about their necks instead of -neckerchiefs, and on the breast of his buckskin jacket the Bishop's -silver cross hung by a silver chain. -</p> -<p> -They were on their way to Mora, the third day out, and they did not know -just how far they had still to go. Since morning they had not met a -traveller or seen a human habitation. They believed they were on the -right trail, for they had seen no other. The first night of their -journey they had spent at Santa Cruz, lying in the warm, wide valley of -the Rio Grande, where the fields and gardens were already softly -coloured with early spring. But since they had left the Española -country behind them, they had contended first with wind and sand-storms, -and now with cold. The Bishop was going to Mora to assist the Padre -there in disposing of a crowd of refugees who filled his house. A new -settlement in the Conejos valley had lately been raided by Indians; many -of the inhabitants were killed, and the survivors, who were originally -from Mora, had managed to get back there, utterly destitute. -</p> -<p> -Before the travellers had crossed the mountain meadows, the rain turned -to sleet. Their wet buckskins quickly froze, and the rattle of icy -flakes struck them and bounded off. The prospect of a night in the open -was not cheering. It was too wet to kindle a fire, their blankets would -become soaked on the ground. As they were descending the mountain on the -Mora side, the gray daylight seemed already beginning to fail, though it -was only four o'clock. Father Latour turned in his saddle and spoke over -his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"The mules are certainly very tired, Joseph. They ought to be fed." -</p> -<p> -"Push on," said Father Vaillant. "We will come to shelter of some kind -before night sets in." The Vicar had been praying steadfastly while they -crossed the meadows, and he felt confident that St. Joseph would not -turn a deaf ear. Before the hour was done they did indeed come upon a -wretched adobe house, so poor and mean that they might not have seen it -had it not lain close beside the trail, on the edge of a steep ravine. -The stable looked more habitable than the house, and the priests thought -perhaps they could spend the night in it. -</p> -<p> -As they rode up to the door, a man came out, bare-headed, and they saw -to their surprise that he was not a Mexican, but an American, of a very -unprepossessing type. He spoke to them in some drawling dialect they -could scarcely understand and asked if they wanted to stay the night. -During the few words they exchanged with him Father Latour felt a -growing reluctance to remain even for a few hours under the roof of this -ugly, evil-looking fellow. He was tall, gaunt and ill-formed, with a -snake-like neck, terminating in a small, bony head. Under his -close-clipped hair this repellent head showed a number of thick ridges, -as if the skull joinings were overgrown by layers of superfluous bone. -With its small, rudimentary ears, this head had a positively malignant -look. The man seemed not more than half human, but he was the only -householder on the lonely road to Mora. -</p> -<p> -The priests dismounted and asked him whether he could put their mules -under shelter and give them grain feed. -</p> -<p> -"As soon as I git my coat on I will. You kin come in." -</p> -<p> -They followed him into a room where a piñon fire blazed in the corner, -and went toward it to warm their stiffened hands. Their host made an -angry, snarling sound in the direction of the partition, and a woman -came out of the next room. She was a Mexican. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour and Father Vaillant addressed her courteously in Spanish, -greeting her in the name of the Holy Mother, as was customary. She did -not open her lips, but stared at them blankly for a moment, then dropped -her eyes and cowered as if she were terribly frightened. The priests -looked at each other; it struck them both that this man had been abusing -her in some way. Suddenly he turned on her. -</p> -<p> -"Clear off them cheers fur the strangers. They won't eat ye, if they air -priests." -</p> -<p> -She began distractedly snatching rags and wet socks and dirty clothes -from the chairs. Her hands were shaking so that she dropped things. She -was not old, she might have been very young, but she was probably -half-witted. There was nothing in her face but blankness and fear. -</p> -<p> -Her husband put on his coat and boots, went to the door, and stopped -with his hand on the latch, throwing over his shoulder a crafty, hateful -glance at the bewildered woman. -</p> -<p> -"Here, you! Come right along, I'll need ye!" -</p> -<p> -She took her black shawl from a peg and followed him. Just at the door -she turned and caught the eyes of the visitors, who were looking after -her in compassion and perplexity. Instantly that stupid face became -intense, prophetic, full of awful meaning. With her finger she pointed -them away, away!—two quick thrusts into the air. Then, with a look of -horror beyond anything language could convey, she threw back her head -and drew the edge of her palm quickly across her distended throat—and -vanished. The doorway was empty; the two priests stood staring at it, -speechless. That flash of electric passion had been so swift, the -warning it communicated so vivid and definite, that they were struck -dumb. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph was the first to find his tongue. "There is no doubt of -her meaning. Your pistol is loaded, Jean?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but I neglected to keep it dry. No matter." -</p> -<p> -They hurried out of the house. It was still light enough to see the -stable through the grey drive of rain, and they went toward it. -</p> -<p> -"Señor American," the Bishop called, "will you be good enough to bring -out our mules?" -</p> -<p> -The man came out of the stable. "What do you want?" -</p> -<p> -"Our mules. We have changed our mind. We will push on to Mora. And here -is a dollar for your trouble." -</p> -<p> -The man took a threatening attitude. As he looked from one to the other -his head played from side to side exactly like a snake's. "What's the -matter? My house ain't good enough for ye?" -</p> -<p> -"No explanation is necessary. Go into the barn and get the mules, Father -Joseph." -</p> -<p> -"You dare go into my stable, you——priest!" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop drew his pistol. "No profanity, Señor. We want nothing from -you but to get away from your uncivil tongue. Stand where you are." -</p> -<p> -The man was unarmed. Father Joseph came out with the mules, which had -not been unsaddled. The poor things were each munching a mouthful, but -they needed no urging to be gone; they did not like this place. The -moment they felt their riders on their backs they trotted quickly along -the road, which dropped immediately into the arroyo. While they were -descending, Father Joseph remarked that the man would certainly have a -gun in the house, and that he had no wish to be shot in the back. -</p> -<p> -"Nor I. But it is growing too dark for that, unless he should follow us -on horseback," said the Bishop. "Were there horses in the stable?" -</p> -<p> -"Only a burro." Father Vaillant was relying upon the protection of St. -Joseph, whose office he had fervently said that morning. The warning -given them by that poor woman, with such scant opportunity, seemed -evidence that some protecting power was mindful of them. -</p> -<p> -By the time they had ascended the far side of the arroyo, night had -closed down and the rain was pouring harder than ever. -</p> -<p> -"I am by no means sure that we can keep in the road," said the Bishop. -"But at least I am sure we are not being followed. We must trust to -these intelligent beasts. Poor woman! He will suspect her and abuse her, -I am afraid." He kept seeing her in the darkness as he rode on, her face -in the fire-light, and her terrible pantomime. -</p> -<p> -They reached the town of Mora a little after midnight. The Padre's house -was full of refugees, and two of them were put out of a bed in order -that the Bishop and his Vicar could get into it. -</p> -<p> -In the morning a boy came from the stable and reported that he had found -a crazy woman lying in the straw, and that she begged to see the two -Padres who owned the white mules. She was brought in, her clothing cut -to rags, her legs and face and even her hair so plastered with mud that -the priests could scarcely recognize the woman who had saved their lives -the night before. -</p> -<p> -She said she had never gone back to the house at all. When the two -priests rode away her husband had run to the house to get his gun, and -she had plunged down a wash-out behind the stable into the arroyo, and -had been on the way to Mora all night. She had supposed he would -overtake her and kill her, but he had not. She reached the settlement -before day-break, and crept into the stable to warm herself among the -animals and wait until the household was awake. Kneeling before the -Bishop she began to relate such horrible things that he stopped her and -turned to the native priest. -</p> -<p> -"This is a case for the civil authorities. Is there a magistrate here?" -</p> -<p> -There was no magistrate, but there was a retired fur trapper who acted -as notary and could take evidence. He was sent for, and in the interval -Father Latour instructed the refugee women from Conejos to bathe this -poor creature and put decent clothes on her, and to care for the cuts -and scratches on her legs. -</p> -<p> -An hour later the woman, whose name was Magdalena, calmed by food and -kindness, was ready to tell her story. The notary had brought along his -friend, St. Vrain, a Canadian trapper who understood Spanish better than -he. The woman was known to St. Vrain, moreover, who confirmed her -statement that she was born Magdalena Valdez, at Los Ranchos de Taos, -and that she was twenty-four years old. Her husband, Buck Scales, had -drifted into Taos with a party of hunters from somewhere in Wyoming. All -white men knew him for a dog and a degenerate—but to Mexican girls, -marriage with an American meant coming up in the world. She had married -him six years ago, and had been living with him ever since in that -wretched house on the Mora trail. During that time he had robbed and -murdered four travellers who had stopped there for the night. They were -all strangers, not known in the country. She had forgot their names, but -one was a German boy who spoke very little Spanish and little English; -a nice boy with blue eyes, and she had grieved for him more than for the -others. They were all buried in the sandy soil behind the stable. She -was always afraid their bodies might wash out in a storm. Their horses -Buck had ridden off by night and sold to Indians somewhere in the north. -Magdalena had borne three children since her marriage, and her husband -had killed each of them a few days after birth, by ways so horrible that -she could not relate it. After he killed the first baby, she ran away -from him, back to her parents at Ranchos. He came after her and made her -go home with him by threatening harm to the old people. She was afraid -to go anywhere for help, but twice before she had managed to warn -travellers away, when her husband happened to be out of the house. This -time she had found courage because, when she looked into the faces of -these two Padres, she knew they were good men, and she thought if she -ran after them they could save her. She could not bear any more killing. -She asked nothing better than to die herself, if only she could hide -near a church and a priest for a while, to make her soul right with God. -</p> -<p> -St. Vrain and his friend got together a search-party at once. They rode -out to Scales's place and found the remains of four men buried under the -corral behind the stable, as the woman had said. Scales himself they -captured on the road from Taos, where he had gone to look for his wife. -They brought him back to Mora, but St. Vrain rode on to Taos to fetch a -magistrate. -</p> -<p> -There was no <i>calabozo</i> in Mora, so Scales was put into an empty -stable, under guard. This stable was soon surrounded by a crowd of -people, who loitered to hear the blood-curdling threats the prisoner -shouted against his wife. Magdalena was kept in the Padre's house, where -she lay on a mat in the corner, begging Father Latour to take her back -to Santa Fé, so that her husband could not get at her. Though Scales -was bound, the Bishop felt alarmed for her safety. He and the American -notary, who had a pistol of the new revolver model, sat in the -<i>sala</i> and kept watch over her all night. -</p> -<p> -In the morning the magistrate and his party arrived from Taos. The -notary told him the facts of the case in the plaza, where everyone could -hear. The Bishop inquired whether there was any place for Magdalena in -Taos, as she could not stay on here in such a state of terror. -</p> -<p> -A man dressed in buckskin hunting-clothes stepped out of the crowd and -asked to see Magdalena. Father Latour conducted him into the room where -she lay on her mat. The stranger went up to her, removing his hat. He -bent down and put his hand on her shoulder. Though he was clearly an -American, he spoke Spanish in the native manner. -</p> -<p> -"Magdalena, don't you remember me?" -</p> -<p> -She looked up at him as out of a dark well; something became alive in -her deep, haunted eyes. She caught with both hands at his fringed -buckskin knees. -</p> -<p> -"Christobal!" she wailed. "Oh, Christobal!" -</p> -<p> -"I'll take you home with me, Magdalena, and you can stay with my wife. -You wouldn't be afraid in my house, would you?" -</p> -<p> -"No, no, Christobal, I would not be afraid with you. I am not a wicked -woman." -</p> -<p> -He smoothed her hair. "You're a good girl, Magdalena—always were. It -will be all right. Just leave things to me." -</p> -<p> -Then he turned to the Bishop. "Señor Vicario, she can come to me. I -live near Taos. My wife is a native woman, and she'll be good to her. -That varmint won't come about my place, even if he breaks jail. He knows -me. My name is Carson." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had looked forward to meeting the scout. He had supposed -him to be a very large man, of powerful body and commanding presence. -This Carson was not so tall as the Bishop himself, was very slight in -frame, modest in manner, and he spoke English with a soft Southern -drawl. His face was both thoughtful and alert; anxiety had drawn a -permanent ridge between his blue eyes. Under his blond moustache his -mouth had a singular refinement. The lips were full and delicately -modelled. There was something curiously unconscious about his mouth, -reflective, a little melancholy,—and something that suggested a -capacity for tenderness. The Bishop felt a quick glow of pleasure in -looking at the man. As he stood there in his buckskin clothes one felt -in him standards, loyalties, a code which is not easily put into words -but which is instantly felt when two men who live by it come together by -chance. He took the scout's hand. "I have long wanted to meet Kit -Carson," he said, "even before I came to New Mexico. I have been hoping -you would pay me a visit at Santa Fé." -</p> -<p> -The other smiled. "I'm right shy, sir, and I'm always afraid of being -disappointed. But I guess it will be all right from now on." -</p> -<p> -This was the beginning of a long friendship. -</p> -<p> -On their ride back to Carson's ranch, Magdalena was put in Father -Vaillant's care, and the Bishop and the scout rode together. Carson said -he had become a Catholic merely as a matter of form, as Americans -usually did when they married a Mexican girl. His wife was a good woman -and very devout; but religion had seemed to him pretty much a woman's -affair until his last trip to California. He had been sick out there, -and the Fathers at one of the missions took care of him. "I began to see -things different, and thought I might some day be a Catholic in earnest. -I was brought up to think priests were rascals, and that the nuns were -bad women,—all the stuff they talk back in Missouri. A good many of -the native priests here bear out that story. Our Padre Martinez at Taos is -an old scapegrace, if ever there was one; he's got children and -grandchildren in almost every settlement around here. And Padre Lucero -at Arroyo Hondo is a miser, takes everything a poor man's got to give -him a Christian burial." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop discussed the needs of his people at length with Carson. He -felt great confidence in his judgment. The two men were about the same -age, both a little over forty, and both had been sobered and sharpened -by wide experience. Carson had been guide in world-renowned -explorations, but he was still almost as poor as in the days when he was -a beaver trapper. He lived in a little adobe house with his Mexican -wife. The great country of desert and mountain ranges between Santa Fé -and the Pacific coast was not yet mapped or charted; the most reliable -map of it was in Kit Carson's brain. This Missourian, whose eye was so -quick to read a landscape or a human face, could not read a printed -page. He could at that time barely write his own name. Yet one felt in -him a quick and discriminating intelligence. That he was illiterate was -an accident; he had got ahead of books, gone where the printing-press -could not follow him. Out of the hardships of his boyhood—from -fourteen to twenty picking up a bare living as cook or mule-driver for -wagon trains, often in the service of brutal and desperate -characters—he had preserved a clean sense of honour and a -compassionate heart. In talking to the Bishop of poor Magdalena he said -sadly: "I used to see her in Taos when she was such a pretty girl. Ain't -it a pity?" -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The degenerate murderer, Buck Scales, was hanged after a short trial. -Early in April the Bishop left Santa Fé on horseback and rode to St. -Louis, on his way to attend the Provincial Council at Baltimore. When he -returned in September, he brought back with him five courageous nuns, -Sisters of Loretto, to found a school for girls in letterless Santa Fé. -He sent at once for Magdalena and took her into the service of the -Sisters. She became housekeeper and manager of the Sisters' kitchen. She -was devoted to the nuns, and so happy in the service of the Church that -when the Bishop visited the school he used to enter by the -kitchen-garden in order to see her serene and handsome face. For she -became beautiful, as Carson said she had been as a girl. After the -blight of her horrible youth was over, she seemed to bloom again in the -household of God. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap03"></a>BOOK THREE -<br><br> -<i>THE MASS AT ÁCOMA</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE WOODEN PARROT</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">D</span>URING the first year after his arrival in -Santa Fé, the Bishop was actually in his diocese only about four -months. Six months of that first year were consumed in attending the -Plenary Council at Baltimore, to which he had been summoned. He went on -horseback over the Santa Fé trail to St. Louis, nearly a thousand -miles, then by steamboat to Pittsburgh, across the mountains to -Cumberland, and on to Washington by the new railroad. The return journey -was even slower, as he had with him the five nuns who came to found the -school of Our Lady of Light. He reached Santa Fé late in September. -</p> -<p> -So far, Bishop Latour had been mainly employed on business that took him -far away from his Vicarate. His great diocese was still an unimaginable -mystery to him. He was eager to be abroad in it, to know his people; to -escape for a little from the cares of building and founding, and to go -westward among the old isolated Indian missions; Santo Domingo, breeder -of horses; Isleta, whitened with gypsum; Laguna, of wide pastures; and -finally, cloud-set Ácoma. -</p> -<p> -In the golden October weather the Bishop, with his blankets and -coffee-pot, attended by Jacinto, a young Indian from the Pecos pueblo, -whom he employed as guide, set off to visit the Indian missions in the -west. He spent a night and a day at Albuquerque, with the genial and -popular Padre Gallegos. After Santa Fé, Albuquerque was the most -important parish in the diocese; the priest belonged to an influential -Mexican family, and he and the <i>rancheros</i> had run their church to -suit themselves, making a very gay affair of it. Though Padre Gallegos was -ten years older than the Bishop, he would still dance the fandango five -nights running, as if he could never have enough of it. He had many -friends in the American colony, with whom he played poker and went -hunting, when he was not dancing with the Mexicans. His cellar was well -stocked with wines from El Paso del Norte, whisky from Taos, and grape -brandy from Bernalillo. He was genuinely hospitable, and the gambler -down on his luck, the soldier sobering up, were always welcome at his -table. The Padre was adored by a rich Mexican widow, who was hostess at -his supper parties, engaged his servants for him, made lace for the -altar and napery for his table. Every Sunday her carriage, the only -closed one in Albuquerque, waited in the plaza after Mass, and when the -priest had put off his vestments, he came out and was driven away to the -lady's hacienda for dinner. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop and Father Vaillant had thoroughly examined the case of -Father Gallegos, and meant to end this scandalous state of things well -before Christmas. But on this visit Father Latour exhibited neither -astonishment nor displeasure at anything, and Padre Gallegos was cordial -and most ceremoniously polite. When the Bishop permitted himself to -express some surprise that there was not a confirmation class awaiting -him, the Padre explained smoothly that it was his custom to confirm -infants at their baptism. -</p> -<p> -"It is all the same in a Christian community like ours. We know they -will receive religious instruction as they grow up, so we make good -Catholics of them in the beginning. Why not?" -</p> -<p> -The Padre was uneasy lest the Bishop should require his attendance on -this trip out among the missions. He had no liking for scanty food and a -bed on the rocks. So, though he had been dancing only a few nights -before, he received his Superior with one foot bandaged up in an Indian -moccasin, and complained of a severe attack of gout. Asked when he had -last celebrated Mass at Ácoma, he made no direct reply. It used to be -his custom, he said, to go there in Passion Week, but the Ácoma Indians -were unreclaimed heathen at heart, and had no wish to be bothered with -the Mass. The last time he went out there, he was unable to get into the -church at all. The Indians pretended they had not the key; that the -Governor had it, and that he had gone on "Indian business" up into the -Cebolleta mountains. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop did not wish Padre Gallegos's company upon his journey, was -very glad not to have the embarrassment of refusing it, and he rode away -from Albuquerque after polite farewells. Yet, he reflected, there was -something very engaging about Gallegos as a man. As a priest, he was -impossible; he was too self-satisfied and popular ever to change his -ways, and he certainly could not change his face. He did not look quite -like a professional gambler, but something smooth and twinkling in his -countenance suggested an underhanded mode of life. There was but one -course: to suspend the man from the exercise of all priestly functions, -and bid the smaller native priests take warning. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant had told the Bishop that he must by all means stop a night -at Isleta, as he would like the priest there—Padre Jesus de Baca, -an old white-haired man, almost blind, who had been at Isleta many years -and had won the confidence and affection of his Indians. -</p> -<p> -When he approached this pueblo of Isleta, gleaming white across a low -plain of grey sand, Father Latour's spirits rose. It was beautiful, that -warm, rich whiteness of the church and the clustered town, shaded by a -few bright acacia trees, with their intense blue-green like the colour -of old paper window-blinds. That tree always awakened pleasant memories, -recalling a garden in the south of France where he used to visit young -cousins. As he rode up to the church, the old priest came out to meet -him, and after his salutation stood looking at Father Latour, shading -his failing eyes with his hand. -</p> -<p> -"And can this be my Bishop? So young a man?" he exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -They went into the priest's house by way of a garden, walled in behind -the church. This enclosure was full of domesticated cactus plants, of -many varieties and great size (it seemed the Padre loved them), and -among these hung wicker cages made of willow twigs, full of parrots. -There were even parrots hopping about the sanded paths,—with one wing -clipped to keep them at home. Father Jesus explained that parrot -feathers were much prized by his Indians as ornaments for their -ceremonial robes, and he had long ago found he could please his -parishioners by raising the birds. -</p> -<p> -The priest's house was white within and without, like all the Isleta -houses, and was almost as bare as an Indian dwelling. The old man was -poor, and too soft-hearted to press the pueblo people for pesos. An -Indian girl cooked his beans and cornmeal mush for him, he required -little else. The girl was not very skilful, he said, but she was clean -about her cooking. When the Bishop remarked that everything in this -pueblo, even the streets, seemed clean, the Padre told him that near -Isleta there was a hill of some white mineral, which the Indians ground -up and used as whitewash. They had done this from time immemorial, and -the village had always been noted for its whiteness. A little talk with -Father Jesus revealed that he was simple almost to childishness, and -very superstitious. But there was a quality of golden goodness about -him. His right eye was overgrown by a cataract, and he kept his head -tilted as if he were trying to see around it. All his movements were to -the left, as if he were reaching or walking about some obstacle in his -path. -</p> -<p> -After coming to the house by way of a garden full of parrots, Father -Latour was amused to find that the sole ornament in the Padre's poor, bare -little <i>sala</i> was a wooden parrot, perched in a hoop and hung from -one of the roof-logs. While Father Jesus was instructing his Indian girl -in the kitchen, the Bishop took this carving down from its perch to -examine it. It was cut from a single stick of wood, exactly the size of -a living bird, body and tail rigid and straight, the head a little -turned. The wings and tail and neck feathers were just indicated by the -tool, and thinly painted. He was surprised to feel how light it was; the -surface had the whiteness and velvety smoothness of very old wood. -Though scarcely carved at all, merely smoothed into shape, it was -strangely lifelike; a wooden pattern of parrots, as it were. -</p> -<p> -The Padre smiled when he found the Bishop with the bird in his hand. -</p> -<p> -"I see you have found my treasure! That, your Grace, is probably the -oldest thing in the pueblo—older than the pueblo itself." -</p> -<p> -The parrot, Father Jesus said, had always been the bird of wonder and -desire to the pueblo Indians. In ancient times its feathers were more -valued than wampum and turquoises. Even before the Spaniards came, the -pueblos of northern New Mexico used to send explorers along the -dangerous and difficult trade routes down into tropical Mexico to bring -back upon their bodies a cargo of parrot feathers. To purchase these the -trader carried pouches full of turquoises from the Cerrillos hills near -Santa Fé. When, very rarely, a trader succeeded in bringing back a live -bird to his people, it was paid divine honours, and its death threw the -whole village into the deepest gloom. Even the bones were piously -preserved. There was in Isleta a parrot skull of great antiquity. His -wooden bird he had bought from an old man who was much indebted to him, -and who was about to die without descendants. Father Jesus had had his -eye upon the bird for years. The Indian told him that his ancestors, -generations ago, had brought it with them from the mother pueblo. The -priest fondly believed that it was a portrait, done from life, of one of -those rare birds that in ancient times were carried up alive, all the -long trail from the tropics. -</p> -<p> -Father Jesus gave a good report of the Indians at Laguna and Ácoma. He -used to go to those pueblos to hold services when he was younger, and -had always found them friendly. -</p> -<p> -"At Ácoma," he said, "you can see something very holy. They have there -a portrait of St. Joseph, sent to them by one of the Kings of Spain, -long ago, and it has worked many miracles. If the season is dry, the -Ácoma people take the picture down to their farms at Acomita, and it -never fails to produce rain. They have rain when none falls in all the -country, and they have crops when the Laguna Indians have none." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>JACINTO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>AKING leave of Isleta and its priest early -in the morning, Father Latour and his guide rode all day through the dry -desert plain west of Albuquerque. It was like a country of dry ashes; no -juniper, no rabbit brush, nothing but thickets of withered, dead-looking -cactus, and patches of wild pumpkin—the only vegetation that had -any vitality. It is a vine, remarkable for its tendency, not to spread -and ramble, but to mass and mount. Its long, sharp, arrow-shaped leaves, -frosted over with prickly silver, are thrust upward and crowded -together; the whole rigid, up-thrust matted clump looks less like a -plant than like a great colony of grey-green lizards, moving and -suddenly arrested by fear. -</p> -<p> -As the morning wore on they had to make their way through a sand-storm -which quite obscured the sun. Jacinto knew the country well, having -crossed it often to go to the religious dances at Laguna, but he rode -with his head low and a purple handkerchief tied over his mouth. Coming -from a pueblo among woods and water, he had a poor opinion of this -plain. At noon he alighted and collected enough greasewood to boil the -Bishop's coffee. They knelt on either side of the fire, the sand curling -about them so that the bread became gritty as they ate it. -</p> -<p> -The sun set red in an atmosphere murky with sand. The travellers made a -dry camp and rolled themselves in their blankets. All night a cold wind -blew over them. Father Latour was so stiff that he arose long before -day-break. The dawn came at last, fair and clear, and they made an early -start. -</p> -<p> -About the middle of that afternoon Jacinto pointed out Laguna in the -distance, lying, apparently, in the midst of bright yellow waves of high -sand dunes—yellow as ochre. As they approached, Father Latour found -these were petrified sand dunes; long waves of soft, gritty yellow rock, -shining and bare except for a few lines of dark juniper that grew out of -the weather cracks,—little trees, and very, very old. At the foot of -this sweep of rock waves was the blue lake, a stone basin full of water, -from which the pueblo took its name. -</p> -<p> -The kindly Padre at Isleta had sent his cook's brother off on foot to -warn the Laguna people that the new High Priest was coming, and that he -was a good man and did not want money. They were prepared, accordingly; -the church was clean and the doors were open; a small white church, -painted above and about the altar with gods of wind and rain and -thunder, sun and moon, linked together in a geometrical design of -crimson and blue and dark green, so that the end of the church seemed to -be hung with tapestry. It recalled to Father Latour the interior of a -Persian chieftain's tent he had seen in a textile exhibit at Lyons. -Whether this decoration had been done by Spanish missionaries or by -Indian converts, he was unable to find out. -</p> -<p> -The Governor told him that his people would come to Mass in the morning, -and that there were a number of children to be baptized. He offered the -Bishop the sacristy for the night, but there was a damp, earthy smell -about that chamber, and Father Latour had already made up his mind that -he would like to sleep on the rock dunes, under the junipers. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto got firewood and good water from the Lagunas, and they made -their camp in a pleasant spot on the rocks north of the village. As the -sun dropped low, the light brought the white church and the yellow adobe -houses up into relief from the flat ledges. Behind their camp, not far -away, lay a group of great mesas. The Bishop asked Jacinto if he knew -the name of the one nearest them. -</p> -<p> -"No, I not know any name," he shook his head. "I know Indian name," he -added, as if, for once, he were thinking aloud. -</p> -<p> -"And what is the Indian name?" -</p> -<p> -"The Laguna Indians call Snow-Bird mountain." He spoke somewhat -unwillingly. -</p> -<p> -"That is very nice," said the Bishop musingly. "Yes, that is a pretty -name." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Indians have nice names too!" Jacinto replied quickly, with a curl -of the lip. Then, as if he felt he had taken out on the Bishop a -reproach not deserved, he said in a moment: "The Laguna people think it -very funny for a big priest to be a young man. The Governor say, how can -I call him Padre when he is younger than my sons?" -</p> -<p> -There was a note of pride in Jacinto's voice very flattering to the -Bishop. He had noticed how kind the Indian voice could be when it was -kind at all; a slight inflection made one feel that one had received a -great compliment. -</p> -<p> -"I am not very young in heart, Jacinto. How old are you, my boy?" -</p> -<p> -"Twenty-six." -</p> -<p> -"Have you a son?" -</p> -<p> -"One. Baby. Not very long born." -</p> -<p> -Jacinto usually dropped the article in speaking Spanish, just as he did -in speaking English, though the Bishop had noticed that when he did give -a noun its article, he used the right one. The customary omission, -therefore, seemed to be a matter of taste, not ignorance. In the Indian -conception of language, such attachments were superfluous and -unpleasing, perhaps. -</p> -<p> -They relapsed into the silence which was their usual form of -intercourse. The Bishop sat drinking his coffee slowly out of the tin -cup, keeping the pot near the embers. The sun had set now, the yellow -rocks were turning grey, down in the pueblo the light of the cook fires -made red patches of the glassless windows, and the smell of piñon smoke -came softly through the still air. The whole western sky was the colour -of golden ashes, with here and there a flush of red on the lip of a -little cloud. High above the horizon the evening-star flickered like a -lamp just lit, and close beside it was another star of constant light, -much smaller. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto threw away the end of his cornhusk cigarette and again spoke -without being addressed. -</p> -<p> -"The ev-en-ing-star," he said in English, slowly and somewhat -sententiously, then relapsed into Spanish. "You see the little star -beside, Padre? Indians call him the guide." -</p> -<p> -The two companions sat, each thinking his own thoughts as night closed -in about them; a blue night set with stars, the bulk of the solitary -mesas cutting into the firmament. The Bishop seldom questioned Jacinto -about his thoughts or beliefs. He didn't think it polite, and he -believed it to be useless. There was no way in which he could transfer -his own memories of European civilization into the Indian mind, and he -was quite willing to believe that behind Jacinto there was a long -tradition, a story of experience, which no language could translate to -him. A chill came with the darkness. Father Latour put on his old -fur-lined cloak, and Jacinto, loosening the blanket tied about his -loins, drew it up over his head and shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"Many stars," he said presently. "What you think about the stars, -Padre?" -</p> -<p> -"The wise men tell us they are worlds, like ours, Jacinto." -</p> -<p> -The end of the Indian's cigarette grew bright and then dull again before -he spoke. "I think not," he said in the tone of one who has considered a -proposition fairly and rejected it. "I think they are leaders—great -spirits." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps they are," said the Bishop with a sigh. "Whatever they are, -they are great. Let us say <i>Our Father</i>, and go to sleep, my boy." -</p> -<p> -Kneeling on either side of the embers they repeated the prayer together -and then rolled up in their blankets. The Bishop went to sleep thinking -with satisfaction that he was beginning to have some sort of human -companionship with his Indian boy. One called the young Indians "boys," -perhaps because there was something youthful and elastic in their -bodies. Certainly about their behaviour there was nothing boyish in the -American sense, nor even in the European sense. Jacinto was never, by -any chance, naïf; he was never taken by surprise. One felt that his -training, whatever it had been, had prepared him to meet any situation -which might confront him. He was as much at home in the Bishop's study as -in his own pueblo—and he was never too much at home anywhere. Father -Latour felt he had gone a good way toward gaining his guide's friendship, -though he did not know how. -</p> -<p> -The truth was, Jacinto liked the Bishop's way of meeting people; thought -he had the right tone with Padre Gallegos, the right tone with Padre -Jesus, and that he had good manners with the Indians. In his experience, -white people, when they addressed Indians, always put on a false face. -There were many kinds of false faces; Father Vaillant's, for example, -was kindly but too vehement. The Bishop put on none at all. He stood -straight and turned to the Governor of Laguna, and his face underwent no -change. Jacinto thought this remarkable. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE ROCK</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER early Mass the next morning Father -Latour and his guide rode off across the low plain that lies between -Laguna and Ácoma. In all his travels the Bishop had seen no country -like this. From the flat red sea of sand rose great rock mesas, -generally Gothic in outline, resembling vast cathedrals. They were not -crowded together in disorder, but placed in wide spaces, long vistas -between. This plain might once have been an enormous city, all the -smaller quarters destroyed by time, only the public buildings -left,—piles of architecture that were like mountains. The sandy -soil of the plain had a light sprinkling of junipers, and was splotched -with masses of blooming rabbit brush,—that olive-coloured plant -that grows in high waves like a tossing sea, at this season covered with -a thatch of bloom, yellow as gorse, or orange like marigolds. -</p> -<p> -This mesa plain had an appearance of great antiquity, and of -incompleteness; as if, with all the materials for world-making -assembled, the Creator had desisted, gone away and left everything on -the point of being brought together, on the eve of being arranged into -mountain, plain, plateau. The country was still waiting to be made into -a landscape. -</p> -<p> -Ever afterward the Bishop remembered his first ride to Ácoma as his -introduction to the mesa country. One thing which struck him at once was -that every mesa was duplicated by a cloud mesa, like a reflection, which -lay motionless above it or moved slowly up from behind it. These cloud -formations seemed to be always there, however hot and blue the sky. -Sometimes they were flat terraces, ledges of vapour; sometimes they were -dome-shaped, or fantastic, like the tops of silvery pagodas, rising one -above another, as if an oriental city lay directly behind the rock. The -great tables of granite set down in an empty plain were inconceivable -without their attendant clouds, which were a part of them, as the smoke -is part of the censer, or the foam of the wave. -</p> -<p> -Coming along the Santa Fé trail, in the vast plains of Kansas, Father -Latour had found the sky more a desert than the land; a hard, empty -blue, very monotonous to the eyes of a Frenchman. But west of the Pecos -all that changed; here there was always activity overhead, clouds -forming and moving all day long. Whether they were dark and full of -violence, or soft and white with luxurious idleness, they powerfully -affected the world beneath them. The desert, the mountains and mesas, -were continually re-formed and re-coloured by the cloud shadows. The -whole country seemed fluid to the eye under this constant change of -accent, this ever-varying distribution of light. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto interrupted these reflections by an exclamation. -</p> -<p> -"Ácoma!" He stopped his mule. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop, following with his eye the straight, pointing Indian hand, -saw, far away, two great mesas. They were almost square in shape, and at -this distance seemed close together, though they were really some miles -apart. -</p> -<p> -"The far one"—his guide still pointed. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop's eyes were not so sharp as Jacinto's, but now, looking down -upon the top of the farther mesa from the high land on which they halted, -he saw a flat white outline on the grey surface—a white square -made up of squares. That, his guide said, was the pueblo of Ácoma. -</p> -<p> -Riding on, they presently drew rein under the Enchanted Mesa, and -Jacinto told him that on this, too, there had once been a village, but -the stairway which had been the only access to it was broken off by a -great storm many centuries ago, and its people had perished up there -from hunger. -</p> -<p> -But how, the Bishop asked him, did men first think of living on the top -of naked rocks like these, hundreds of feet in the air, without soil or -water? -</p> -<p> -Jacinto shrugged. "A man can do whole lot when they hunt him day and -night like an animal. Navajos on the north, Apaches on the south; the -Ácoma run up a rock to be safe." -</p> -<p> -All this plain, the Bishop gathered, had once been the scene of a -periodic man-hunt; these Indians, born in fear and dying by violence for -generations, had at last taken this leap away from the earth, and on -that rock had found the hope of all suffering and tormented -creatures—safety. They came down to the plain to hunt and to grow -their crops, but there was always a place to go back to. If a band of -Navajos were on the Ácoma's trail, there was still one hope; if he -could reach his rock—Sanctuary! On the winding stone stairway up -the cliff, a handful of men could keep off a multitude. The rock of -Ácoma had never been taken by a foe but once,—by Spaniards in -armour. It was very different from a mountain fastness; more lonely, -more stark and grim, more appealing to the imagination. The rock, when -one came to think of it, was the utmost expression of human need; even -mere feeling yearned for it; it was the highest comparison of loyalty in -love and friendship. Christ Himself had used that comparison for the -disciple to whom He gave the keys of His Church. And the Hebrews of the -Old Testament, always being carried captive into foreign -lands,—their rock was an idea of God, the only thing their -conquerors could not take from them. -</p> -<p> -Already the Bishop had observed in Indian life a strange literalness, -often shocking and disconcerting. The Ácomas, who must share the -universal human yearning for something permanent, enduring, without -shadow of change,—they had their idea in substance. They actually -lived upon their Rock; were born upon it and died upon it. There was an -element of exaggeration in anything so simple! -</p> -<p> -As they drew near the Ácoma mesa, dark clouds began boiling up from -behind it, like ink spots spreading in a brilliant sky. -</p> -<p> -"Rain come," remarked Jacinto. "That is good. They will be well -disposed." He left the mules in a stake corral at the foot of the mesa, -took up the blankets, and hurried Father Latour into the narrow crack in -the rock where the craggy edges formed a kind of natural stairway up the -cliff. Wherever the footing was treacherous, it was helped out by little -handholds, ground into the stone like smooth mittens. The mesa was -absolutely naked of vegetation, but at its foot a rank plant grew -conspicuously out of the sand; a plant with big white blossoms like -Easter lilies. By its dark blue-green leaves, large and coarse-toothed, -Father Latour recognized a species of the noxious datura. The size and -luxuriance of these nightshades astonished him. They looked like great -artificial plants, made of shining silk. -</p> -<p> -While they were ascending the rock, deafening thunder broke over their -heads, and the rain began to fall as if it were spilled from a -cloud-burst. Drawing into a deep twist of the stairway, under an -overhanging ledge, they watched the water shaken in heavy curtains in -the air before them. In a moment the seam in which they stood was like -the channel of a brook. Looking out over the great plain spotted with -mesas and glittering with rain sheets, the Bishop saw the distant -mountains bright with sunlight. Again he thought that the first Creation -morning might have looked like this, when the dry land was first drawn -up out of the deep, and all was confusion. -</p> -<p> -The storm was over in half an hour. By the time the Bishop and his guide -reached the last turn in the trail, and rose through the crack, stepping -out on the flat top of the rock, the noontide sun was blazing down upon -Ácoma with almost insupportable brightness. The bare stone floor of the -town and its deepworn paths were washed white and clean, and those -depressions in the surface which the Ácomas call their cisterns, were -full of fresh rain water. Already the women were bringing out their -clothes, to begin washing. The drinking water was carried up the -stairway in earthen jars on the heads of the women, from a secret spring -below; but for all other purposes the people depended on the rainfall -held in these cisterns. -</p> -<p> -The top of the mesa was about ten acres in extent, the Bishop judged, -and there was not a tree or a blade of green upon it; not a handful of -soil, except the churchyard, held in by an adobe wall, where the earth -for burial had been carried up in baskets from the plain below. The -white dwellings, two and three storeyed, were not scattered, but huddled -together in a close cluster, with no protecting slope of ground or -shoulder of rock, lying flat against the flat, bright against the -bright,—both the rock and the plastered houses threw off the sun -glare blindingly. -</p> -<p> -At the very edge of the mesa, overhanging the abyss so that its -retaining wall was like a part of the cliff itself, was the old warlike -church of Ácoma, with its two stone towers. Gaunt, grim, grey, its nave -rising some seventy feet to a sagging, half-ruined roof, it was more -like a fortress than a place of worship. That spacious interior -depressed the Bishop as no other mission church had done. He held a -service there before midday, and he had never found it so hard to go -through the ceremony of the Mass. Before him, on the grey floor, in the -grey light, a group of bright shawls and blankets, some fifty or sixty -silent faces; above and behind them the grey walls. He felt as if he -were celebrating Mass at the bottom of the sea, for antediluvian -creatures; for types of life so old, so hardened, so shut within their -shells, that the sacrifice on Calvary could hardly reach back so far. -Those shell-like backs behind him might be saved by baptism and divine -grace, as undeveloped infants are, but hardly through any experience of -their own, he thought. When he blessed them and sent them away, it was -with a sense of inadequacy and spiritual defeat. -</p> -<p> -After he had laid aside his vestments, Father Latour went over the -church with Jacinto. As he examined it his wonder grew. What need had -there ever been for this great church at Ácoma? It was built early in -sixteen hundred, by Fray Juan Ramirez, a great missionary, who laboured -on the Rock of Ácoma for twenty years or more. It was Father Ramirez, -too, who made the mule trail down the other side,—the only path by -which a burro can ascend the mesa, and which is still called "El Camino -del Padre." -</p> -<p> -The more Father Latour examined this church, the more he was inclined to -think that Fray Ramirez, or some Spanish priest who followed him, was -not altogether innocent of worldly ambition, and that they built for -their own satisfaction, perhaps, rather than according to the needs of -the Indians. The magnificent site, the natural grandeur of this -stronghold, might well have turned their heads a little. Powerful men -they must have been, those Spanish Fathers, to draft Indian labour for -this great work without military support. Every stone in that structure, -every handful of earth in those many thousand pounds of adobe, was -carried up the trail on the backs of men and boys and women. And the -great carved beams of the roof—Father Latour looked at them with -amazement. In all the plain through which he had come he had seen no -trees but a few stunted piñons. He asked Jacinto where these huge -timbers could have been found. -</p> -<p> -"San Mateo mountain, I guess." -</p> -<p> -"But the San Mateo mountains must be forty or fifty miles away. How -could they bring such timbers?" -</p> -<p> -Jacinto shrugged. "Ácomas carry." Certainly there was no other -explanation. -</p> -<p> -Besides the church proper there was the cloister, large, thick-walled, -which must have required an enormous labour of portage from the plain. -The deep cloister corridors were cool when the rock outside was -blistering; the low arches opened on an enclosed garden which, judging -from its depth of earth, must once have been very verdant. Pacing those -shady passages, with four feet of solid, windowless adobe shutting out -everything but the green garden and the turquoise sky above, the early -missionaries might well have forgotten the poor Ácomas, that tribe of -ancient rock-turtles, and believed themselves in some cloister hung on a -spur of the Pyrenees. -</p> -<p> -In the grey dust of the enclosed garden two thin, half-dead peach trees -still struggled with the drouth, the kind of unlikely tree that grows up -from an old root and never bears. By the wall yellow suckers put out -from an old vine stump, very thick and hard, which must once have borne -its ripe clusters. -</p> -<p> -Built upon the north-east corner of the cloister the Bishop found a -loggia—roofed, but with open sides, looking down on the white pueblo -and the tawny rock, and over the wide plain below. There he decided he -would spend the night. From this loggia he watched the sun go down; -watched the desert become dark, the shadows creep upward. Abroad in the -plain the scattered mesa tops, red with the afterglow, one by one lost -their light, like candles going out. He was on a naked rock in the -desert, in the stone age, a prey to homesickness for his own kind, his -own epoch, for European man and his glorious history of desire and -dreams. Through all the centuries that his own part of the world had -been changing like the sky at day-break, this people had been fixed, -increasing neither in numbers nor desires, rock-turtles on their rock. -Something reptilian he felt here, something that had endured by -immobility, a kind of life out of reach, like the crustaceans in their -armour. -</p> -<p> -On his homeward way the Bishop spent another night with Father Jesus, -the good priest at Isleta, who talked with him much of the Moqui country -and of those very old rock-set pueblos still farther to the west. One -story related to a long-forgotten friar at Ácoma, and was somewhat as -follows: -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE LEGEND OF FRAY BALTAZAR</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">S</span>OME time in the very early years of -seventeen hundred, nearly fifty years after the great Indian uprising in -which all the missionaries and all the Spaniards in northern New Mexico -were either driven out or murdered, after the country had been -reconquered and new missionaries had come to take the place of the -martyrs, a certain Friar Baltazar Montoya was priest at Ácoma. He was -of a tyrannical and overbearing disposition and bore a hard hand on the -natives. All the missions now in ruins were active then, each had its -resident priest, who lived for the people or upon the people, according -to his nature. Friar Baltazar was one of the most ambitious and -exacting. It was his belief that the pueblo of Ácoma existed chiefly to -support its fine church, and that this should be the pride of the -Indians as it was his. He took the best of their corn and beans and -squashes for his table, and selected the choicest portions when they -slaughtered a sheep, chose their best hides to carpet his dwelling. -Moreover, he exacted a heavy tribute in labour. He was never done with -having earth carried up from the plain in baskets. He enlarged the -churchyard and made the deep garden in the cloister, enriching it with -dung from the corrals. Here he was able to grow a wonderful garden, -since it was watered every evening by women,—and this despite the -fact that it was not proper that a woman should ever enter the cloister -at all. Each woman owed the Padre so many <i>ollas</i> of water a week -from the cisterns, and they murmured not only because of the labour, but -because of the drain on their water-supply. -</p> -<p> -Baltazar was not a lazy man, and in his first years there, before he -became stout, he made long journeys in behalf of his mission and his -garden. He went as far as Oraibi, many days' journey, to select their -best peach seeds. (The peach orchards of Oraibi were very old, having -been cultivated since the days of the earliest Spanish expeditions, when -Coronado's captains gave the Moquis peach seeds brought from Spain.) His -grape cuttings were brought from Sonora in baskets on muleback, and he -would go all the way to the Villa (Santa Fé) for choice garden seeds, -at the season when pack trains came up the Rio Grande valley. The early -churchmen did a great business in carrying seeds about, though the -Indians and Mexicans were satisfied with beans and squashes and chili, -asking nothing more. -</p> -<p> -Friar Baltazar was from a religious house in Spain which was noted for -good living, and he himself had worked in the refectory. He was an -excellent cook and something of a carpenter, and he took a great deal of -trouble to make himself comfortable upon that rock at the end of the -world. He drafted two Indian boys into his service, one to care for his -ass and work in the garden, the other to cook and wait upon him at -table. In time, as he grew more unwieldy in figure, he adopted a third -boy and employed him as a runner to the distant missions. This boy would -go on foot all the way to the Villa for red cloth or an iron spade or a -new knife, stopping at Bernalillo to bring home a wineskin full of grape -brandy. He would go five days' journey to the Sandia mountains to catch -fish and dry or salt them for the Padre's fast-days, or run to Zuñi, -where the Fathers raised rabbits, and bring back a pair for the spit. -His errands were seldom of an ecclesiastical nature. -</p> -<p> -It was clear that the Friar at Ácoma lived more after the flesh than -after the spirit. The difficulty of obtaining an interesting and varied -diet on a naked rock seemed only to whet his appetite and tempt his -resourcefulness. But his sensuality went no further than his garden and -table. Carnal commerce with the Indian women would have been very easy -indeed, and the Friar was at the hardy age of ripe manhood when such -temptations are peculiarly sharp. But the missionaries had early -discovered that the slightest departure from chastity greatly weakened -their influence and authority with their Indian converts. The Indians -themselves sometimes practised continence as a penance, or as a strong -medicine with the spirits, and they were very willing that their Padre -should practise it for them. The consequences of carnal indulgence were -perhaps more serious here than in Spain, and Friar Baltazar seems never -to have given his flock an opportunity to exult over his frailty. -</p> -<p> -He held his seat at Ácoma for nearly fifteen prosperous years, -constantly improving his church and his living-quarters, growing new -vegetables and medicinal herbs, making soap from the yucca root. Even -after he became stout, his arms were strong and muscular, his fingers -clever. He cultivated his peach trees, and watched over his garden like -a little kingdom, never allowing the native women to grow slack in the -water-supply. His first serving-boys were released to marry, and others -succeeded them, who were even more minutely trained. -</p> -<p> -Baltazar's tyranny grew little by little, and the Ácoma people were -sometimes at the point of revolt. But they could not estimate just how -powerful the Padre's magic might be and were afraid to put it to the -test. There was no doubt that the holy picture of St. Joseph had come to -them from the King of Spain by the request of this Padre, and that -picture had been more effective in averting drouth than all the native -rain-makers had been. Properly entreated and honoured, the painting had -never failed to produce rain. Ácoma had not lost its crops since Friar -Baltazar first brought the picture to them, though at Laguna and Zuñi -there had been drouths that compelled the people to live upon their -famine store,—an alarming extremity. -</p> -<p> -The Laguna Indians were constantly sending legations to Ácoma to -negotiate terms at which they could rent the holy picture, but Friar -Baltazar had warned them never to let it go. If such powerful protection -were withdrawn, or if the Padre should turn the magic against them, the -consequences might be disastrous to the pueblo. Better give him his -choice of grain and lambs and pottery, and allow him his three -serving-boys. So the missionary and his converts rubbed along in seeming -friendliness. -</p> -<p> -One summer the Friar, who did not make long journeys now that he had -grown large in girth, decided that he would like company,—someone to -admire his fine garden, his ingenious kitchen, his airy loggia with its -rugs and water jars, where he meditated and took his after-dinner -siesta. So he planned to give a dinner party in the week after St. -John's Day. -</p> -<p> -He sent his runner to Zuñi, Laguna, Isleta, and bade the Padres to a -feast. They came upon the day, four of them, for there were two priests -at Zuñi. The stable-boy was stationed at the foot of the rock to take -their beasts and conduct the visitors up the stairway. At the head of -the trail Baltazar received them. They were shown over the place, and -spent the morning gossiping in the cloister walks, cool and silent, -though the naked rock outside was almost too hot for the hand to touch. -The vine leaves rustled agreeably in the breeze, and the earth about the -carrot and onion tops, as it dried from last night's watering, gave off -a pleasant smell. The guests thought their host lived very well, and -they wished they had his secret. If he was a trifle boastful of his -air-bound seat, no one could blame him. -</p> -<p> -With the dinner, Baltazar had taken extravagant pains. The monastery in -which he had learned to cook was off the main highway to Seville; the -Spanish nobles and the King himself sometimes stopped there for -entertainment. In that great kitchen, with its multiplicity of spits, -small enough to roast a lark and large enough to roast a boar, the Friar -had learned a thing or two about sauces, and in his lonely years at -Ácoma he had bettered his instruction by a natural aptitude for the -art. The poverty of materials had proved an incentive rather than a -discouragement. -</p> -<p> -Certainly the visiting missionaries had never sat down to food like that -which rejoiced them to-day in the cool refectory, the blinds open just -enough to admit a streak of throbbing desert far below them. Their host -was telling them pompously that he would have a fountain in the cloister -close when they came again. He had to check his hungry guests in their -zeal for the relishes and the soup, warning them to save their mettle -for what was to come. The roast was to be a wild turkey, superbly -done—but that, alas, was never tasted. The course which preceded it -was the host's especial care, and here he had trusted nothing to his cook; -hare <i>jardinière</i> (his carrots and onions were tender and well -flavoured), with a sauce which he had been perfecting for many years. -This entrée was brought from the kitchen in a large earthen dish—but -not large enough, for with its luxury of sauce and floating carrots it -filled the platter to the brim. The stable-boy was serving to-day, as -the cook could not leave his spits, and he had been neat, brisk, and -efficient. The Friar was pleased with him, and was wondering whether he -could not find some little medal of bronze or silver-gilt to reward him -for his pains. -</p> -<p> -When the hare in its sauce came on, the priest from Isleta chanced to be -telling a funny story at which the company were laughing uproariously. -The serving-boy, who knew a little Spanish, was apparently trying to get -the point of the recital which made the Padres so merry. At any rate, he -became distracted, and as he passed behind the senior priest of Zuñi, -he tipped his full platter and spilled a stream of rich brown gravy over -the good man's head and shoulders. Baltazar was quick-tempered, and he -had been drinking freely of the fiery grape brandy. He caught up the -empty pewter mug at his right and threw it at the clumsy lad with a -malediction. It struck the boy on the side of the head. He dropped the -platter, staggered a few steps, and fell down. He did not get up, nor -did he move. The Padre from Zuñi was skilled in medicine. Wiping the -sauce from his eyes, he bent over the boy and examined him. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Muerto</i>," he whispered. With that he plucked his junior priest by -the sleeve, and the two bolted across the garden without another word and -made for the head of the stairway. In a moment the Padres of Laguna and -Isleta unceremoniously followed their example. With remarkable speed the -four guests got them down from the rock, saddled their mules, and urged -them across the plain. -</p> -<p> -Baltazar was left alone with the consequences of his haste. -Unfortunately the cook, astonished at the prolonged silence, had looked -in at the door just as the last pair of brown gowns were vanishing -across the cloister. He saw his comrade lying upon the floor, and -silently disappeared from the premises by an exit known only to himself. -</p> -<p> -When Friar Baltazar went into the kitchen he found it solitary, the -turkey still dripping on the spit. Certainly he had no appetite for the -roast. He felt, indeed, very remorseful and uncomfortable, also -indignant with his departed guests. For a moment he entertained the idea -of following them; but a temporary flight would only weaken his -position, and a permanent evacuation was not to be thought of. His -garden was at its prime, his peaches were just coming ripe, and his -vines hung heavy with green clusters. Mechanically he took the turkey -from the spit, not because he felt any inclination for food, but from an -instinct of compassion, quite as if the bird could suffer from being -burned to a crisp. This done, he repaired to his loggia and sat down to -read his breviary, which he had neglected for several days, having been -so occupied in the refectory. He had begrudged no pains to that sauce -which had been his undoing. -</p> -<p> -The airy loggia, where he customarily took his afternoon repose, was -like a birdcage hung in the breeze. Through its open archways he looked -down on the huddled pueblo, and out over the great mesa-strewn plain far -below. He was unable to fix his mind upon his office. The pueblo down -there was much too quiet. At this hour there should be a few women -washing pots or rags, a few children playing by the cisterns and chasing -the turkeys. But to-day the rock top baked in the fire of the sun in -utter silence, not one human being was visible—yes, one, though he -had not been there a moment ago. At the head of the stone stairway, there -was a patch of lustrous black, just above the rocks; an Indian's hair. -They had set a guard at the trail head. -</p> -<p> -Now the Padre began to feel alarmed, to wish he had gone down that -stairway with the others, while there was yet time. He wished he were -anywhere in the world but on this rock. There was old Father Ramirez's -donkey path; but if the Indians were watching one road, they would watch -the other. The spot of black hair never stirred; and there were but -those two ways down to the plain, only those ... Whichever way one -turned, three hundred and fifty feet of naked cliff, without one tree or -shrub a man could cling to. -</p> -<p> -As the sun sank lower and lower, there began a deep, singing murmur of -male voices from the pueblo below him, not a chant, but the rhythmical -intonation of Indian oratory when a serious matter is under discussion. -Frightful stories of the torture of the missionaries in the great -rebellion of 1680 flashed into Friar Baltazar's mind; how one Franciscan -had his eyes torn out, another had been burned, and the old Padre at -Jamez had been stripped naked and driven on all fours about the plaza -all night, with drunken Indians straddling his back, until he rolled -over dead from exhaustion. -</p> -<p> -Moonrise from the loggia was an impressive sight, even to this Brother -who was not over-impressionable. But to-night he wished he could keep -the moon from coming up through the floor of the desert,—the moon was -the clock which began things in the pueblo. He watched with horror for -that golden rim against the deep blue velvet of the night. -</p> -<p> -The moon came, and at its coming the Ácoma people issued from their -doors. A company of men walked silently across the rock to the cloister. -They came up the ladder and appeared in the loggia. The Friar asked them -gruffly what they wanted, but they made no reply. Not once speaking to -him or to each other, they bound his feet together and tied his arms to -his sides. -</p> -<p> -The Ácoma people told afterwards that he did not supplicate or -struggle; had he done so, they might have dealt more cruelly with him. -But he knew his Indians, and that when once they had collectively made -up their pueblo mind ... Moreover, he was a proud old Spaniard, and had -a certain fortitude lodged in his well-nourished body. He was accustomed -to command, not to entreat, and he retained the respect of his Indian -vassals to the end. -</p> -<p> -They carried him down the ladder and through the cloister and across the -rock to the most precipitous cliff—the one over which the Ácoma women -flung broken pots and such refuse as the turkeys would not eat. There -the people were assembled. They cut his bonds, and taking him by the -hands and feet, swung him out over the rock-edge and back a few times. -He was heavy, and perhaps they thought this dangerous sport. No sound -but hissing breath came through his teeth. The four executioners took -him up again from the brink where they had laid him, and, after a few -feints, dropped him in mid-air. -</p> -<p> -So did they rid their rock of their tyrant, whom on the whole they had -liked very well. But everything has its day. The execution was not -followed by any sacrilege to the church or defiling of holy vessels, but -merely by a division of the Padre's stores and household goods. The -women, indeed, took pleasure in watching the garden pine and waste away -from thirst, and ventured into the cloisters to laugh and chatter at the -whitening foliage of the peach trees, and the green grapes shrivelling -on the vines. -</p> -<p> -When the next priest came, years afterward, he found no ill will -awaiting him. He was a native Mexican, of unpretentious tastes, who was -well satisfied with beans and jerked meat, and let the pueblo turkey -flock scratch in the hot dust that had once been Baltazar's garden. The -old peach stumps kept sending up pale sprouts for many years. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap04"></a>BOOK FOUR -<br><br> -<i>SNAKE ROOT</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE NIGHT AT PECOS</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span> MONTH after the Bishop's visit to -Albuquerque and Ácoma, the genial Father Gallegos was formally -suspended, and Father Vaillant himself took charge of the parish. At -first there was bitter feeling; the rich <i>rancheros</i> and the merry -ladies of Albuquerque were very hostile to the French priest. He began -his reforms at once. Everything was changed. The holy-days, which had -been occasions of revelry under Padre Gallegos, were now days of austere -devotion. The fickle Mexican population soon found as much diversion in -being devout as they had once found in being scandalous. Father Vaillant -wrote to his sister Philomène, in France, that the temper of his parish -was like that of a boys' school; under one master the lads try to excel -one another in mischief and disobedience, under another they vie with -each other in acts of loyalty. The Novena preceding Christmas, which had -long been celebrated by dances and hilarious merry-making, was this year -a great revival of religious zeal. -</p> -<p> -Though Father Vaillant had all the duties of a parish priest at -Albuquerque, he was still Vicar General, and in February the Bishop -dispatched him on urgent business to Las Vegas. He did not return on the -day that he was expected, and when several days passed with no word from -him, Father Latour began to feel some anxiety. -</p> -<p> -One morning at day-break a very sick Indian boy rode into the Bishop's -courtyard on Father Joseph's white mule, Contento, bringing bad news. -The Padre, he said, had stopped at his village in the Pecos mountains -where black measles had broken out, to give the sacrament to the dying, -and had fallen ill of the sickness. The boy himself had been well when -he started for Santa Fé, but had become sick on the way. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop had the messenger put into the wood-house, an isolated -building at the end of the garden, where the Sisters of Loretto could -tend him. He instructed the Mother Superior to pack a bag with such -medicines and comforts for the sick as he could carry, and told -Fructosa, his cook, to put up for him the provisions he usually took on -horseback journeys. When his man brought a pack-mule and his own mule, -Angelica, to the door, Father Latour, already in his rough -riding-breeches and buckskin jacket, looked at the handsome beast and -shook his head. -</p> -<p> -"No, leave her with Contento. The new army mule is heavier, and will do -for this journey." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop rode out of Santa Fé two hours after the Indian messenger -rode in. He was going direct to the pueblo of Pecos, where he would pick -up Jacinto. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the pueblo, -lying low on its red rock ledges, half-surrounded by a crown of fir-clad -mountains, and facing a sea of junipers and cedars. The Bishop had meant -to get fresh horses at Pecos and push on through the mountains, but -Jacinto and the older Indians who gathered about the horseman, strongly -advised him to spend the night there and start in the early morning. The -sun was shining brilliantly in a blue sky, but in the west, behind the -mountain, lay a great stationary black cloud, opaque and motionless as a -ledge of rock. The old men looked at it and shook their heads. -</p> -<p> -"Very big wind," said the governor gravely. -</p> -<p> -Unwillingly the Bishop dismounted and gave his mules to Jacinto; it -seemed to him that he was wasting time. There was still an hour before -nightfall, and he spent that hour pacing up and down the crust of bare -rock between the village and the ruin of the old mission church. The sun -was sinking, a red ball which threw a copper glow over the pine-covered -ridge of mountains, and edged that inky, ominous cloud with molten -silver. The great red earth walls of the mission, red as brick-dust, -yawned gloomily before him,—part of the roof had fallen in, and the -rest would soon go. -</p> -<p> -At this moment Father Joseph was lying dangerously ill in the dirt and -discomfort of an Indian village in winter. Why, the Bishop was asking -himself, had he ever brought his friend to this life of hardship and -danger? Father Vaillant had been frail from childhood, though he had the -endurance resulting from exhaustless enthusiasm. The Brothers at -Montferrand were not given to coddling boys, but every year they used to -send this one away for a rest in the high Volvic mountains, because his -vitality ran down under the confinement of college life. Twice, while he -and Father Latour were missionaries in Ohio, Joseph had been at death's -door; once so ill with cholera that the newspapers had printed his name -in the death list. On that occasion their Ohio Bishop had christened him -<i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>. Yes, Father Latour told himself, <i>Blanchet</i> had -outwitted death so often, there was always the chance he would do it -again. -</p> -<p> -Walking about the walls of the ruin, the Bishop discovered that the -sacristy was dry and clean, and he decided to spend the night there, -wrapped in his blankets, on one of the earthen benches that ran about -the inner walls. While he was examining this room, the wind began to -howl about the old church, and darkness fell quickly. From the low -doorways of the pueblo ruddy fire-light was gleaming—singularly -grateful to the eye. Waiting for him on the rocks, he recognized the -slight figure of Jacinto, his blanket drawn close about his head, his -shoulders bowed to the wind. -</p> -<p> -The young Indian said that supper was ready, and the Bishop followed him -to his particular lair in those rows of little houses all alike and all -built together. There was a ladder before Jacinto's door which led up to -a second storey, but that was the dwelling of another family; the roof -of Jacinto's house made a veranda for the family above him. The Bishop -bent his head under the low doorway and stepped down; the floor of the -room was a long step below the doorsill—the Indian way of preventing -drafts. The room into which he descended was long and narrow, smoothly -whitewashed, and clean, to the eye, at least, because of its very -bareness. There was nothing on the walls but a few fox pelts and strings -of gourds and red peppers. The richly coloured blankets of which Jacinto -was very proud were folded in piles on the earth settle,—it was there -he and his wife slept, near the fire-place. The earth of that settle -became warm during the day and held its heat until morning, like the -Russian peasants' stove-bed. Over the fire a pot of beans and dried meat -was simmering. The burning piñon logs filled the room with -sweet-smelling smoke. Clara, Jacinto's wife, smiled at the priest as he -entered. She ladled out the stew, and the Bishop and Jacinto sat down on -the floor beside the fire, each with his bowl. Between them Clara put a -basin full of hot corn-bread baked with squash seeds,—an Indian -delicacy comparable to raisin bread among the whites. The Bishop said a -blessing and broke the bread with his hands. While the two men ate, the -young woman watched them and stirred a tiny cradle of deerskin which -hung by thongs from the roof poles. Jacinto, when questioned, said sadly -that the baby was ailing. Father Latour did not ask to see it; it would -be swathed in layers of wrappings, he knew; even its face and head would -be covered against drafts. Indian babies were never bathed in winter, -and it was useless to suggest treatment for the sick ones. On that -subject the Indian ear was closed to advice. -</p> -<p> -It was a pity, too, that he could do nothing for Jacinto's baby. Cradles -were not many in the pueblo of Pecos. The tribe was dying out; infant -mortality was heavy, and the young couples did not reproduce -freely,—the life-force seemed low. Smallpox and measles had taken -heavy toll here time and again. -</p> -<p> -Of course there were other explanations, credited by many good people in -Santa Fé. Pecos had more than its share of dark legends,—perhaps that -was because it had been too tempting to white men, and had had more than -its share of history. It was said that this people had from time -immemorial kept a ceremonial fire burning in some cave in the mountain, -a fire that had never been allowed to go out, and had never been -revealed to white men. The story was that the service of this fire -sapped the strength of the young men appointed to serve it,—always -the best of the tribe. Father Latour thought this hardly probable. Why -should it be very arduous, in a mountain full of timber, to feed a fire -so small that its whereabouts had been concealed for centuries? -</p> -<p> -There was also the snake story, reported by the early explorers, both -Spanish and American, and believed ever since: that this tribe was -peculiarly addicted to snake worship, that they kept rattlesnakes -concealed in their houses, and somewhere in the mountain guarded an -enormous serpent which they brought to the pueblo for certain feasts. It -was said that they sacrificed young babies to the great snake, and thus -diminished their numbers. -</p> -<p> -It seemed much more likely that the contagious diseases brought by white -men were the real cause of the shrinkage of the tribe. Among the -Indians, measles, scarlatina and whooping-cough were as deadly as typhus -or cholera. Certainly, the tribe was decreasing every year. Jacinto's -house was at one end of the living pueblo; behind it were long rock ridges -of dead pueblo,—empty houses ruined by weather and now scarcely -more than piles of earth and stone. The population of the living streets -was less than one hundred adults.<a id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> This was all that was left of the -rich and populous Cicuyè of Coronado's expedition. Then, by his report, -there were six thousand souls in the Indian town. They had rich fields -irrigated from the Pecos River. The streams were full of fish, the -mountain was full of game. The pueblo, indeed, seemed to lie upon the -knees of these verdant mountains, like a favoured child. Out yonder, on -the juniper-spotted plateau in front of the village, the Spaniards had -camped, exacting a heavy tribute of corn and furs and cotton garments -from their hapless hosts. It was from here, the story went, that they -set forth in the spring on their ill-fated search for the seven golden -cities of Quivera, taking with them slaves and concubines ravished from -the Pecos people. -</p> -<p> -As Father Latour sat by the fire and listened to the wind sweeping down -from the mountains and howling over the plateau, he thought of these -things; and he could not help wondering whether Jacinto, sitting silent -by the same fire, was thinking of them, too. The wind, he knew, was -blowing out of the inky cloud bank that lay behind the mountain at -sunset; but it might well be blowing out of a remote, black past. The -only human voice raised against it was the feeble wailing of the sick -child in the cradle. Clara ate noiselessly in a corner, Jacinto looked -into the fire. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop read his breviary by the fire-light for an hour. Then, warmed -to the bone and assured that his roll of blankets was warmed through, he -rose to go. Jacinto followed with the blankets and one of his own -buffalo robes. They went along a line of red doorways and across the -bare rock to the gaunt ruin, whose lateral walls, with their buttresses, -still braved the storm and let in the starlight. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a><i>In actual fact, the dying pueblo of Pecos was abandoned -some years before the American occupation of New Mexico.</i></p></div> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>STONE LIPS</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T was not difficult for the Bishop to -waken early. After midnight his body became more and more chilled and -cramped. He said his prayers before he rolled out of his blankets, -remembering Father Vaillant's maxim that if you said your prayers first, -you would find plenty of time for other things afterward. -</p> -<p> -Going through the silent pueblo to Jacinto's door, the Bishop woke him -and asked him to make a fire. While the Indian went to get the mules -ready, Father Latour got his coffee-pot and tin cup out of his -saddle-bags, and a round loaf of Mexican bread. With bread and black -coffee, he could travel day after day. Jacinto was for starting without -breakfast, but Father Latour made him sit down and share his loaf. Bread -is never too plenty in Indian households. Clara was still lying on the -settle with her baby. -</p> -<p> -At four o'clock they were on the road, Jacinto riding the mule that -carried the blankets. He knew the trails through his own mountains well -enough to follow them in the dark. Toward noon the Bishop suggested a -halt to rest the mules, but his guide looked at the sky and shook his -head. The sun was nowhere to be seen, the air was thick and grey and -smelled of snow. Very soon the snow began to fall—lightly at first, -but all the while becoming heavier. The vista of pine trees ahead of them -grew shorter and shorter through the vast powdering of descending -flakes. A little after midday a burst of wind sent the snow whirling in -coils about the two travellers, and a great storm broke. The wind was -like a hurricane at sea, and the air became blind with snow. The Bishop -could scarcely see his guide—saw only parts of him, now a head, now a -shoulder, now only the black rump of his mule. Pine trees by the way -stood out for a moment, then disappeared absolutely in the whirlpool of -snow. Trail and landmarks, the mountain itself, were obliterated. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto sprang from his mule and unstrapped the roll of blankets. -Throwing the saddle-bags to the Bishop, he shouted, "Come, I know a -place. Be quick, Padre." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop protested they could not leave the mules. Jacinto said the -mules must take their chance. -</p> -<p> -For Father Latour the next hour was a test of endurance. He was blind -and breathless, panting through his open mouth. He clambered over -half-visible rocks, fell over prostrate trees, sank into deep holes and -struggled out, always following the red blankets on the shoulders of the -Indian boy, which stuck out when the boy himself was lost to sight. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly the snow seemed thinner. The guide stopped short. They were -standing, the Bishop made out, under an overhanging wall of rock which -made a barrier against the storm. Jacinto dropped the blankets from his -shoulder and seemed to be preparing to climb the cliff. Looking up, the -Bishop saw a peculiar formation in the rocks; two rounded ledges, one -directly over the other, with a mouth-like opening between. They -suggested two great stone lips, slightly parted and thrust outward. Up -to this mouth Jacinto climbed quickly by footholds well known to him. -Having mounted, he lay down on the lower lip, and helped the Bishop to -clamber up. He told Father Latour to wait for him on this projection -while he brought up the baggage. -</p> -<p> -A few moments later the Bishop slid after Jacinto and the blankets, -through the orifice, into the throat of the cave. Within stood a wooden -ladder, like that used in kivas, and down this he easily made his way to -the floor. -</p> -<p> -He found himself in a lofty cavern, shaped somewhat like a Gothic -chapel, of vague outline,—the only light within was that which came -through the narrow aperture between the stone lips. Great as was his -need of shelter, the Bishop, on his way down the ladder, was struck by a -reluctance, an extreme distaste for the place. The air in the cave was -glacial, penetrated to the very bones, and he detected at once a fetid -odour, not very strong but highly disagreeable. Some twenty feet or so -above his head the open mouth let in grey daylight like a high transom. -</p> -<p> -While he stood gazing about, trying to reckon the size of the cave, his -guide was intensely preoccupied in making a careful examination of the -floor and walls. At the foot of the ladder lay a heap of half-burned -logs. There had been a fire there, and it had been extinguished with -fresh earth,—a pile of dust covered what had been the heart of the -fire. Against the cavern wall was a heap of piñon faggots, neatly -piled. After he had made a minute examination of the floor, the guide -began cautiously to move this pile of wood, taking the sticks up one by -one, and putting them in another spot. The Bishop supposed he would make -a fire at once, but he seemed in no haste to do so. Indeed, when he had -moved the wood he sat down upon the floor and fell into reflection. -Father Latour urged him to build a fire without further delay. -</p> -<p> -"Padre," said the Indian boy, "I do not know if it was right to bring -you here. This place is used by my people for ceremonies and is known -only to us. When you go out from here, you must forget." -</p> -<p> -"I will forget, certainly. But unless we can have a fire, we had better -go back into the storm. I feel ill here already." -</p> -<p> -Jacinto unrolled the blankets and threw the dryest one about the -shivering priest. Then he bent over the pile of ashes and charred wood, -but what he did was to select a number of small stones that had been -used to fence in the burning embers. These he gathered in his <i>serape</i> -and carried to the rear wall of the cavern, where, a little above his head, -there seemed to be a hole. It was about as large as a very big -watermelon, of an irregular oval shape. -</p> -<p> -Holes of that shape are common in the black volcanic cliffs of the -Pajarito Plateau, where they occur in great numbers. This one was -solitary, dark, and seemed to lead into another cavern. Though it lay -higher than Jacinto's head, it was not beyond easy reach of his arms, -and to the Bishop's astonishment he began deftly and noiselessly to -place the stones he had collected within the mouth of this orifice, -fitting them together until he had entirely closed it. He then cut -wedges from the piñon faggots and inserted them into the cracks between -the stones. Finally, he took a handful of the earth that had been used -to smother the dead fire, and mixed it with the wet snow that had blown -in between the stone lips. With this thick mud he plastered over his -masonry, and smoothed it with his palm. The whole operation did not take -a quarter of an hour. -</p> -<p> -Without comment or explanation he then proceeded to build a fire. The -odour so disagreeable to the Bishop soon vanished before the fragrance -of the burning logs. The heat seemed to purify the rank air at the same -time that it took away the deathly chill, but the dizzy noise in Father -Latour's head persisted. At first he thought it was a vertigo, a roaring -in his ears brought on by cold and changes in his circulation. But as he -grew warm and relaxed, he perceived an extraordinary vibration in this -cavern; it hummed like a hive of bees, like a heavy roll of distant -drums. After a time he asked Jacinto whether he, too, noticed this. The -slim Indian boy smiled for the first time since they had entered the -cave. He took up a faggot for a torch, and beckoned the Padre to follow -him along a tunnel which ran back into the mountain, where the roof grew -much lower, almost within reach of the hand. There Jacinto knelt down -over a fissure in the stone floor, like a crack in china, which was -plastered up with clay. Digging some of this out with his hunting knife, -he put his ear on the opening, listened a few seconds, and motioned the -Bishop to do likewise. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour lay with his ear to this crack for a long while, despite -the cold that arose from it. He told himself he was listening to one of -the oldest voices of the earth. What he heard was the sound of a great -underground river, flowing through a resounding cavern. The water was -far, far below, perhaps as deep as the foot of the mountain, a flood -moving in utter blackness under ribs of antediluvian rock. It was not a -rushing noise, but the sound of a great flood moving with majesty and -power. -</p> -<p> -"It is terrible," he said at last, as he rose. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Si, Padre</i>." Jacinto began spitting on the clay he had gouged out of -the seam, and plastered it up again. -</p> -<p> -When they returned to the fire, the patch of daylight up between the two -lips had grown much paler. The Bishop saw it die with regret. He took -from his saddle-bags his coffee-pot and a loaf of bread and a goat -cheese. Jacinto climbed up to the lower ledge of the entrance, shook a -pine tree, and filled the coffee-pot and one of the blankets with fresh -snow. While his guide was thus engaged, the Bishop took a swallow of old -Taos whisky from his pocket flask. He never liked to drink spirits in -the presence of an Indian. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto declared that he thought himself lucky to get bread and black -coffee. As he handed the Bishop back his tin cup after drinking its -contents, he rubbed his hand over his wide sash with a smile of pleasure -that showed all his white teeth. -</p> -<p> -"We had good luck to be near here," he said. "When we leave the mules, I -think I can find my way here, but I am not sure. I have not been here -very many times. You was scare, Padre?" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop reflected. "You hardly gave me time to be scared, boy. Were -you?" -</p> -<p> -The Indian shrugged his shoulders. "I think not to return to pueblo," he -admitted. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour read his breviary long by the light of the fire. Since -early morning his mind had been on other than spiritual things. At last -he felt that he could sleep. He made Jacinto repeat a <i>Pater Noster</i> -with him, as he always did on their night camps, rolled himself in his -blankets, and stretched out, feet to the fire. He had it in his mind, -however, to waken in the night and study a little the curious hole his -guide had so carefully closed. After he put on the mud, Jacinto had -never looked in the direction of that hole again, and Father Latour, -observing Indian good manners, had tried not to glance toward it. -</p> -<p> -He did waken, and the fire was still giving off a rich glow of light in -that lofty Gothic chamber. But there against the wall was his guide, -standing on some invisible foothold, his arms outstretched against the -rock, his body flattened against it, his ear over that patch of fresh -mud, listening; listening with supersensual ear, it seemed, and he -looked to be supported against the rock by the intensity of his -solicitude. The Bishop closed his eyes without making a sound and -wondered why he had supposed he could catch his guide asleep. -</p> -<p> -The next morning they crawled out through the stone lips, and dropped -into a gleaming white world. The snow-clad mountains were red in the -rising sun. The Bishop stood looking down over ridge after ridge of -wintry fir trees with the tender morning breaking over them, all their -branches laden with soft, rose-coloured clouds of virgin snow. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto said it would not be worth while to look for the mules. When the -snow melted, he would recover the saddles and bridles. They floundered -on foot some eight miles to a squatter's cabin, rented horses, and -completed their journey by starlight. When they reached Father Vaillant, -he was sitting up in a bed of buffalo skins, his fever broken, already -on the way to recovery. Another good friend had reached him before the -Bishop. Kit Carson, on a deer hunt in the mountains with two Taos -Indians, had heard that this village was stricken and that the Vicario -was there. He hurried to the rescue, and got into the pueblo with a pack -of venison meat just before the storm broke. As soon as Father Vaillant -could sit in the saddle, Carson and the Bishop took him back to Santa -Fé, breaking the journey into four days because of his enfeebled state. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The Bishop kept his word, and never spoke of Jacinto's cave to anyone, -but he did not cease from wondering about it. It flashed into his mind -from time to time, and always with a shudder of repugnance quite -unjustified by anything he had experienced there. It had been a -hospitable shelter to him in his extremity. Yet afterward he remembered -the storm itself, even his exhaustion, with a tingling sense of -pleasure. But the cave, which had probably saved his life, he remembered -with horror. No tales of wonder, he told himself, would ever tempt him -into a cavern hereafter. -</p> -<p> -At home again, in his own house, he still felt a certain curiosity about -this ceremonial cave, and Jacinto's puzzling behaviour. It seemed almost -to lend a colour of probability to some of those unpleasant stories -about the Pecos religion. He was already convinced that neither the -white men nor the Mexicans in Santa Fé understood anything about Indian -beliefs or the workings of the Indian mind. -</p> -<p> -Kit Carson had told him that the proprietor of the trading post between -Glorieta Pass and the Pecos pueblo had grown up a neighbour to these -Indians, and knew as much about them as anybody. His parents had kept -the trading post before him, and his mother was the first white woman in -that neighborhood. The trader's name was Zeb Orchard; he lived alone in -the mountains, selling salt and sugar and whisky and tobacco to red men -and white. Carson said that he was honest and truthful, a good friend to -the Indians, and had at one time wanted to marry a Pecos girl, but his -old mother, who was very proud of being "white," would not hear to it, -and so he had remained a single man and a recluse. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour made a point of stopping for the night with this trader on -one of his missionary journeys, in order to question him about the Pecos -customs and ceremonies. -</p> -<p> -Orchard said that the legend about the undying fire was unquestionably -true; but it was kept burning, not in the mountain, but in their own -pueblo. It was a smothered fire in a clay oven, and had been burning in -one of the kivas ever since the pueblo was founded, centuries ago. About -the snake stories, he was not certain. He had seen rattlesnakes around -the pueblo, to be sure, but there were rattlers everywhere. A Pecos boy -had been bitten on the ankle some years ago, and had come to him-for -whisky; he swelled up and was very sick, like any other boy. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop asked Orchard if he thought it probable that the Indians kept -a great serpent in concealment somewhere, as was commonly reported. -</p> -<p> -"They do keep some sort of varmint out in the mountain, that they bring -in for their religious ceremonies," the trader said. "But I don't know -if it's a snake or not. No white man knows anything about Indian -religion, Padre." -</p> -<p> -As they talked further, Orchard admitted that when he was a boy he had -been very curious about these snake stories himself, and once, at their -festival time, he had spied on the Pecos men, though that was not a very -safe thing to do. He had lain in ambush for two nights on the mountain, -and he saw a party of Indians bringing in a chest by torchlight. It was -about the size of a woman's trunk, and it was heavy enough to bend the -young aspen poles on which it was hung. "If I'd seen white men bringing -in a chest after dark," he observed, "I could have made a guess at what -was in it; money, or whisky, or fire-arms. But seeing it was Indians, I -can't say. It might have been only queer-shaped rocks their ancestors -had taken a notion to. The things they value most are worth nothing to -us. They've got their own superstitions, and their minds will go round -and round in the same old ruts till Judgment Day." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour remarked that their veneration for old customs was a -quality he liked in the Indians, and that it played a great part in his -own religion. -</p> -<p> -The trader told him he might make good Catholics among the Indians, but -he would never separate them from their own beliefs. "Their priests have -their own kind of mysteries. I don't know how much of it is real and how -much is made up. I remember something that happened when I was a little -fellow. One night a Pecos girl, with her baby in her arms, ran into the -kitchen here and begged my mother to hide her until after the festival, -for she'd seen signs between the <i>caciques</i>, and was sure they were -going to feed—her baby to the snake. Whether it was true or not, she -certainly believed it, poor thing, and Mother let her stay. It made a -great impression on me at the time." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap05"></a>BOOK FIVE -<br><br> -<i>PADRE MARTINEZ</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE OLD ORDER</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">B</span>ISHOP LATOUR, with Jacinto, was riding -through the mountains on his first official visit to Taos—after -Albuquerque, the largest and richest parish in his diocese. Both the -priest and people there were hostile to Americans and jealous of -interference. Any European, except a Spaniard, was regarded as a gringo. -The Bishop had let the parish alone, giving their animosity plenty of -time to cool. With Carson's help he had informed himself fully about -conditions there, and about the powerful old priest, Antonio José -Martinez, who was ruler in temporal as well as in spiritual affairs. -Indeed, before Father Latour's entrance upon the scene, Martinez had -been dictator to all the parishes in northern New Mexico, and the native -priests at Santa Fé were all of them under his thumb. -</p> -<p> -It was common talk that Padre Martinez had instigated the revolt of the -Taos Indians five years ago, when Bent, the American Governor, and a -dozen other white men were murdered and scalped. Seven of the Taos -Indians had been tried before a military court and hanged for the -murder, but no attempt had been made to call the plotting priest to -account. Indeed, Padre Martinez had managed to profit considerably by -the affair. -</p> -<p> -The Indians who were sentenced to death had sent for their Padre and -begged him to get them out of the trouble he had got them into. Martinez -promised to save their lives if they would deed him their lands, near -the pueblo. This they did, and after the conveyance was properly -executed the Padre troubled himself no more about the matter, but went -to pay a visit at his native town of Abiquiu. In his absence the seven -Indians were hanged on the appointed day. Martinez now cultivated their -fertile farms, which made him quite the richest man in the parish. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had had polite correspondence with Martinez, but had met -him only once, on that memorable occasion when the Padre had ridden up -from Taos to strengthen the Santa Fé clergy in their refusal to -recognize the new Bishop. But he could see him as if that were only -yesterday,—the priest of Taos was not a man one would easily forget. -One could not have passed him on the street without feeling his great -physical force and his imperious will. Not much taller than the Bishop -in reality, he gave the impression of being an enormous man. His broad -high shoulders were like a bull buffalo's, his big head was set -defiantly on a thick neck, and the full-cheeked, richly coloured, -egg-shaped Spanish face—how vividly the Bishop remembered that face! -It was so unusual that he would be glad to see it again; a high, narrow -forehead, brilliant yellow eyes set deep in strong arches, and full, -florid cheeks,—not blank areas of smooth flesh, as in Anglo-Saxon -faces, but full of muscular activity, as quick to change with feeling as -any of his features. His mouth was the very assertion of violent, -uncurbed passions and tyrannical self-will; the full lips thrust out and -taut, like the flesh of animals distended by fear or desire. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour judged that the day of lawless personal power was almost -over, even on the frontier, and this figure was to him already like -something picturesque and impressive, but really impotent, left over -from the past. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop and Jacinto left the mountains behind them, the trail dropped -to a plain covered by clumps of very old sage-brush, with trunks as -thick as a man's leg. Jacinto pointed out a cloud of dust moving rapidly -toward them,—a cavalcade of a hundred men or more, Indians and -Mexicans, come out to welcome their Bishop with shouting and musketry. -</p> -<p> -As the horsemen approached, Padre Martinez himself was easily -distinguishable—in buckskin breeches, high boots and silver spurs, a -wide Mexican hat on his head, and a great black cape wound about his -shoulders like a shepherd's plaid. He rode up to the Bishop and reining -in his black gelding, uncovered his head in a broad salutation, while -his escort surrounded the churchmen and fired their muskets into the -air. -</p> -<p> -The two priests rode side by side into Los Ranchos de Taos, a little -town of yellow walls and winding streets and green orchards. The -inhabitants were all gathered in the square before the church. When the -Bishop dismounted to enter the church, the women threw their shawls on -the dusty pathway for him to walk upon, and as he passed through the -kneeling congregation, men and women snatched for his hand to kiss the -Episcopal ring. In his own country all this would have been highly -distasteful to Jean Marie Latour. Here, these demonstrations seemed a -part of the high colour that was in landscape and gardens, in the -flaming cactus and the gaudily decorated altars,—in the agonized -Christs and dolorous Virgins and the very human figures of the saints. -He had already learned that with this people religion was necessarily -theatrical. -</p> -<p> -From Los Ranchos the party rode quickly across the grey plain into Taos -itself, to the priest's house, opposite the church, where a great throng -had collected. As the people sank on their knees, one boy, a gawky lad -of ten or twelve, remained standing, his mouth open and his hat on his -head. Padre Martinez reached over the heads of several kneeling women, -snatched off the boy's cap, and cuffed him soundly about the ears. When -Father Latour murmured in protest, the native priest said boldly: -</p> -<p> -"He is my own son, Bishop, and it is time I taught him manners." -</p> -<p> -So this was to be the tune, the Bishop reflected. His well-schooled -countenance did not change a shadow as he received this challenge, and -he passed on into the Padre's house. They went at once into Martinez's -study, where they found a young man lying on the floor, fast asleep. He -was a very large young man, very stout, lying on his back with his head -pillowed on a book, and as he breathed his bulk rose and fell amazingly. -He wore a Franciscan's brown gown, and his hair was clipped short. At -sight of the sleeper, Padre Martinez broke into a laugh and gave him a -no very gentle kick in the ribs. The fellow got to his feet in great -confusion, escaping through a door into the <i>patio</i>. -</p> -<p> -"You there," the Padre called after him, "only young men who work hard -at night want to sleep in the day! You must have been studying by -candlelight. I'll give you an examination in theology!" This was greeted -by a titter of feminine laughter from the windows across the court, -where the fugitive took refuge behind a washing hung out to dry. He bent -his tall, full figure and disappeared between a pair of wet sheets. -</p> -<p> -"That was my student, Trinidad," said Martinez, "a nephew of my old -friend Father Lucero, at Arroyo Hondo. He's a monk, but we want him to -take orders. We sent him to the Seminary in Durango, but he was either -too homesick or too stupid to learn anything, so I'm teaching him here. -We shall make a priest of him one day." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour was told to consider the house his own, but he had no wish -to. The disorder was almost more than his fastidious taste could bear. -The Padre's study table was sprinkled with snuff, and piled so high with -books that they almost hid the crucifix hanging behind it. Books were -heaped on chairs and tables all over the house,—and the books and the -floors were deep in the dust of spring sand-storms. Father Martinez's -boots and hats lay about in corners, his coats and cassocks were hung on -pegs and draped over pieces of furniture. Yet the place seemed overrun -by serving-women, young and old,—and by large yellow cats with full -soft fur, of a special breed, apparently. They slept in the -window-sills, lay on the well-curb in the <i>patio</i>; the boldest came, -directly, to the supper-table, where their master fed them carelessly -from his plate. -</p> -<p> -When they sat down to supper, the host introduced to the Bishop the -tall, stout young man with the protruding front, who had been asleep on -the floor. He said again that Trinidad Lucero was studying with him, and -was supposed to be his secretary,—adding that he spent most of his -time hanging about the kitchen and hindering the girls at their work. -</p> -<p> -These remarks were made in the young man's presence, but did not -embarrass him at all. His whole attention was fixed upon the mutton -stew, which he began to devour with undue haste as soon as his plate was -put before him. The Bishop observed later that Trinidad was treated very -much like a poor relation or a servant. He was sent on errands, was told -without ceremony to fetch the Padre's boots, to bring wood for the fire, -to saddle his horse. Father Latour disliked his personality so much that -he could scarcely look at him. His fat face was irritatingly stupid, and -had the grey, oily look of soft cheeses. The corners of his mouth were -deep folds in plumpness, like the creases in a baby's legs, and the -steel rim of his spectacles, where it crossed his nose, was embedded in -soft flesh. He said not one word during supper, but ate as if he were -afraid of never seeing food again. When his attention left his plate for -a moment, it was fixed in the same greedy way upon the girl who served -the table—and who seemed to regard him with careless contempt. The -student gave the impression of being always stupefied by one form of -sensual disturbance or another. -</p> -<p> -Padre Martinez, with a napkin tied round his neck to protect his -cassock, ate and drank generously. The Bishop found the food poor -enough, despite the many cooks, though the wine, which came from El Paso -del Norte, was very fair. -</p> -<p> -During supper, his host asked the Bishop flatly if he considered -celibacy an essential condition of the priest's vocation. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour replied merely that this question had been thrashed out -many centuries ago and decided once for all. -</p> -<p> -"Nothing is decided once for all," Martinez declared fiercely. "Celibacy -may be all very well for the French clergy, but not for ours. St. -Augustine himself says it is better not to go against nature. I find -every evidence that in his old age he regretted having practised -continence." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop said he would be interested to see the passages from which he -drew such conclusions, observing that he knew the writings of St. -Augustine fairly well. -</p> -<p> -"I have the telling passages all written down somewhere. I will find -them before you go. You have probably read them with a sealed mind. -Celibate priests lose their perceptions. No priest can experience -repentance and forgiveness of sin unless he himself falls into sin. -Since concupiscence is the most common form of temptation, it is better -for him to know something about it. The soul cannot be humbled by fasts -and prayer; it must be broken by mortal sin to experience forgiveness of -sin and rise to a state of grace. Otherwise, religion is nothing but -dead logic." -</p> -<p> -"This is a subject upon which we must confer later, and at some length," -said the Bishop quietly. "I shall reform these practices throughout my -diocese as rapidly as possible. I hope it will be but a short time until -there is not a priest left who does not keep all the vows he took when -he bound himself to the service of the altar." -</p> -<p> -The swarthy Padre laughed, and threw off the big cat which had mounted -to his shoulder. "It will keep you busy, Bishop. Nature has got the -start of you here. But for all that, our native priests are more devout -than your French Jesuits. We have a living Church here, not a dead arm -of the European Church. Our religion grew out of the soil, and has its -own roots. We pay a filial respect to the person of the Holy Father, but -Rome has no authority here. We do not require aid from the Propaganda, -and we resent its interference. The Church the Franciscan Fathers -planted here was cut off; this is the second growth, and is indigenous. -Our people are the most devout left in the world. If you blast their -faith by European formalities, they will become infidels and -profligates." -</p> -<p> -To this eloquence the Bishop returned blandly that he had not come to -deprive the people of their religion, but that he would be compelled to -deprive some of the priests of their parishes if they did not change -their way of life. -</p> -<p> -Father Martinez filled his glass and replied with perfect good humour. -"You cannot deprive me of mine, Bishop. Try it! I will organize my own -church. You can have your French priest of Taos, and I will have the -people!" -</p> -<p> -With this the Padre left the table and stood warming his back at the -fire, his cassock pulled up about his waist to expose his trousers to -the blaze. "You are a young man, my Bishop," he went on, rolling his big -head back and looking up at the well-smoked roof poles. "And you know -nothing about Indians or Mexicans. If you try to introduce European -civilization here and change our old ways, to interfere with the secret -dances of the Indians, let us say, or abolish the bloody rites of the -Penitentes, I foretell an early death for you. I advise you to study our -native traditions before you begin your reforms. You are among barbarous -people, my Frenchman, between two savage races. The dark things -forbidden by your Church are a part of Indian religion. You cannot -introduce French fashions here." -</p> -<p> -At this moment the student, Trinidad, got up quietly, and after an -obsequious bow to the Bishop, went with soft, escaping tread toward the -kitchen. When his brown skirt had disappeared through the door, Father -Latour turned sharply to his host. -</p> -<p> -"Martinez, I consider it very unseemly to talk in this loose fashion -before young men, especially a young man who is studying for the -priesthood. Furthermore, I cannot see why a young man of this calibre -should be encouraged to take orders. He will never hold a parish in my -diocese." -</p> -<p> -Padre Martinez laughed and showed his long, yellow teeth. Laughing did -not become him; his teeth were too large—distinctly vulgar. "Oh, -Trinidad will go to Arroyo Hondo as curate to his uncle, who is growing -old. He's a very devout fellow, Trinidad. You ought to see him in -Passion Week. He goes up to Abiquiu and becomes another man; carries the -heaviest crosses to the highest mountains, and takes more scourging than -anyone. He comes back here with his back so full of cactus spines that -the girls have to pick him like a chicken." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour was tired, and went to his room soon after supper. The -bed, upon examination, seemed clean and comfortable, but he felt -uncertain of its surroundings. He did not like the air of this house. -After he retired, the clatter of dish-washing and the giggling of women -across the <i>patio</i> kept him awake a long while; and when that ceased, -Father Martinez began snoring in some chamber near by. He must have left -his door open into the <i>patio</i>, for the adobe partitions were thick -enough to smother sound otherwise. The Padre snored like an enraged -bull, until the Bishop decided to go forth and find his door and close -it. He arose, lit his candle, and opened his own door in half-hearted -resolution. As the night wind blew into the room, a little dark shadow -fluttered from the wall across the floor; a mouse, perhaps. But no, it -was a bunch of woman's hair that had been indolently tossed into a -corner when some slovenly female toilet was made in this room. This -discovery annoyed the Bishop exceedingly. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -High Mass was at eleven the next morning, the parish priest officiating -and the Bishop in the Episcopal chair. He was well pleased with the -church of Taos. The building was clean and in good repair, the -congregation large and devout. The delicate lace, snowy linen, and -burnished brass on the altar told of a devoted Altar Guild. The boys who -served at the altar wore rich smocks of hand-made lace over their -scarlet surplices. The Bishop had never heard the Mass more impressively -sung than by Father Martinez. The man had a beautiful baritone voice, -and he drew from some deep well of emotional power. Nothing in the -service was slighted, every phrase and gesture had its full value. At -the moment of the Elevation the dark priest seemed to give his whole -force, his swarthy body and all its blood, to that lifting-up. Rightly -guided, the Bishop reflected, this Mexican might have been a great man. -He had an altogether compelling personality, a disturbing, mysterious -magnetic power. -</p> -<p> -After the confirmation service, Father Martinez had horses brought round -and took the Bishop out to see his farms and live-stock. He took him all -over his ranches down in the rich bottom lands between Taos and the -Indian pueblo which, as Father Latour knew, had come into his possession -from the seven Indians who were hanged. Martinez referred carelessly to -the Bent massacre as they rode along. He boasted that there had never -been trouble afoot in New Mexico that wasn't started in Taos. -</p> -<p> -They stopped just west of the pueblo a little before sunset,—a pueblo -very different from all the others the Bishop had visited; two large -communal houses, shaped like pyramids, gold-coloured in the afternoon -light, with the purple mountain lying just behind them. Gold-coloured -men in white burnouses came out on the stairlike flights of roofs, and -stood still as statues, apparently watching the changing light on the -mountain. There was a religious silence over the place; no sound at all -but the bleating of goats coming home through clouds of golden dust. -</p> -<p> -These two houses, the Padre told him, had been continuously occupied by -this tribe for more than a thousand years. Coronado's men found them -there, and described them as a superior kind of Indian, handsome and -dignified in bearing, dressed in deerskin coats and trousers like those -of Europeans. -</p> -<p> -Though the mountain was timbered, its lines were so sharp that it had -the sculptured look of naked mountains like the Sandias. The general -growth on its sides was evergreen, but the canyons and ravines were -wooded with aspens, so that the shape of every depression was painted on -the mountain-side, light green against the dark, like symbols; -serpentine, crescent, half-circles. This mountain and its ravines had -been the seat of old religious ceremonies, honey-combed with noiseless -Indian life, the repository of Indian secrets, for many centuries, the -Padre remarked. -</p> -<p> -"And some place in there, you may be sure, they keep Popé's estufa, but -no white man will ever see it. I mean the estufa where Popé sealed -himself up for four years and never saw the light of day, when he was -planning the revolt of 1680. I suppose you know all about that outbreak, -Bishop Latour?" -</p> -<p> -"Something, of course, from the Martyrology. But I did not know that it -originated in Taos." -</p> -<p> -"Haven't I just told you that all the trouble there ever was in New -Mexico originated in Taos?" boasted the Padre. "Popé was born a San -Juan Indian, but so was Napoleon a Corsican. He operated from Taos." -</p> -<p> -Padre Martinez knew his country, a country which had no written -histories. He gave the Bishop much the best account he had heard of the -great Indian revolt of 1680, which added such a long chapter to the -Martyrology of the New World, when all the Spaniards were killed or -driven out, and there was not one European left alive north of El Paso -del Norte. -</p> -<p> -That night after supper, as his host sat taking snuff, Father Latour -questioned him closely and learned something about the story of his -life. -</p> -<p> -Martinez was born directly under that solitary blue mountain on the -sky-line west of Taos, shaped like a pyramid with the apex sliced off, -in Abiquiu. It was one of the oldest Mexican settlements in the -territory, surrounded by canyons so deep and ranges so rugged that it -was practically cut off from intercourse with the outside world. Being -so solitary, its people were sombre in temperament, fierce and fanatical -in religion, celebrated the Passion Week by cross-bearings and bloody -scourgings. -</p> -<p> -Antonio José Martinez grew up there, without learning to read or write, -married at twenty, and lost his wife and child when he was twenty-three. -After his marriage he had learned to read from the parish priest, and -when he became a widower he decided to study for the priesthood. Taking -his clothes and the little money he got from the sale of his household -goods, he started on horseback for Durango, in Old Mexico. There he -entered the Seminary and began a life of laborious study. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop could imagine what it meant for a young man who had not -learned to read until long after adolescence, to undergo a severe -academic training. He found Martinez deeply versed, not only in the -Church Fathers, but in the Latin and Spanish classics. After six years -at the Seminary, Martinez had returned to his native Abiquiu as priest -of the parish church there. He was passionately attached to that old -village under the pyramidal mountain. All the while he had been in Taos, -half a lifetime now, he made periodic pilgrimages on horseback back to -Abiquiu, as if the flavour of his own yellow earth were medicine to his -soul. Naturally he hated the Americans. The American occupation meant -the end of men like himself. He was a man of the old order, a son of -Abiquiu, and his day was over. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -On his departure from Taos, the Bishop went out of his way to make a -call at Kit Carson's ranch house. Carson, he knew, was away buying -sheep, but Father Latour wished to see the Señora Carson to thank her -again for her kindness to poor Magdalena, and to tell her of the woman's -happy and devoted life with the Sisters in their school at Santa Fé. -</p> -<p> -The Señora received him with that quiet but unabashed hospitality which -is a common grace in Mexican households. She was a tall woman, slender, -with drooping shoulders and lustrous black eyes and hair. Though she -could not read, both her face and conversation were intelligent. To the -Bishop's thinking, she was handsome; her countenance showed that -discipline of life which he admired. She had a cheerful disposition, -too, and a pleasant sense of humour. It was possible to talk -confidentially to her. She said she hoped he had been comfortable in -Padre Martinez's house, with an inflection which told that she much -doubted it, and she laughed a little when he confessed that he had been -annoyed by the presence of Trinidad Lucero. -</p> -<p> -"Some people say he is Father Lucero's son," she said with a shrug. "But -I do not think so. More likely one of Padre Martinez's. Did you hear -what happened to him at Abiquiu last year, in Passion Week? He tried to -be like the Saviour, and had himself crucified. Oh, not with nails! He -was tied upon a cross with ropes, to hang there all night; they do that -sometimes at Abiquiu, it is a very old-fashioned place. But he is so -heavy that after he had hung there a few hours, the cross fell over with -him, and he was very much humiliated. Then he had himself tied to a post -and said he would bear as many stripes as our Saviour—six thousand, -as was revealed to St. Bridget. But before they had given him a hundred, he -fainted. They scourged him with cactus whips, and his back was so -poisoned that he was sick up there for a long while. This year they sent -word that they did not want him at Abiquiu, so he had to keep Holy Week -here, and everybody laughed at him." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour asked the Señora to tell him frankly whether she thought -he could put a stop to the extravagances of the Penitential Brotherhood. -She smiled and shook her head. "I often say to my husband, I hope you -will not try to do that. It would only set the people against you. The -old people have need of their old customs; and the young ones will go -with the times." -</p> -<p> -As the Bishop was taking his leave, she put into his saddle-bags a -beautiful piece of lace-work for Magdalena. "She will not be likely to -use it for herself, but she will be glad to have it to give to the -Sisters. That brutal man left her nothing. After he was hung, there was -nothing to sell but his gun and one burro. That was why he was going to -take the risk of killing two Padres for their mules—and for spite -against religion, maybe! Magdalena said he had often threatened to kill -the priest at Mora." -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -At Santa Fé the Bishop found Father Vaillant awaiting him. They had not -seen each other since Easter, and there were many things to be -discussed. The vigour and zeal of Bishop Latour's administration had -already been recognized at Rome, and he had lately received a letter -from Cardinal Fransoni, Prefect of the Propaganda, announcing that the -vicarate of Santa Fé had been formally raised to a diocese. By the same -long-delayed post came an invitation from the Cardinal, urgently -requesting Father Latour's presence at important conferences at the -Vatican during the following year. Though all these matters must be -taken up in their turn between the Bishop and his Vicar-General, Father -Joseph had undoubtedly come up from Albuquerque at this particular time -because of a lively curiosity to hear how the Bishop had been received -in Taos. -</p> -<p> -Seated in the study in their old cassocks, with the candles lighted on -the table between them, they spent a long evening. -</p> -<p> -"For the present," Father Latour remarked, "I shall do nothing to change -the curious situation at Taos. It is not expedient to interfere. The -church is strong, the people are devout. No matter what the conduct of -the priest has been, he has built up a strong organization, and his -people are devotedly loyal to him." -</p> -<p> -"But can he be disciplined, do you think?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, there is no question of discipline! He has been a little potentate -too long. His people would assuredly support him against a French -Bishop. For the present I shall be blind to what I do not like there." -</p> -<p> -"But Jean," Father Joseph broke out in agitation, "the man's life is an -open scandal, one hears of it everywhere. Only a few weeks ago I was -told a pitiful story of a Mexican girl carried off in one of the Indian -raids on the Costella valley. She was a child of eight when she was -carried away, and was fifteen when she was found and ransomed. During -all that time the pious girl had preserved her virginity by a succession -of miracles. She had a medal from the shrine of Our Lady of Guadelupe -tied round her neck, and she said such prayers as she had been taught. -Her chastity was threatened many times, but always some unexpected event -averted the catastrophe. After she was found and sent back to some -relatives living in Arroyo Hondo, she was so devout that she wished to -become a religious. She was debauched by this Martinez, and he married -her to one of his peons. She is now living on one of his farms." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Christobal told me that story," said the Bishop with a shrug. "But -Padre Martinez is getting too old to play the part of Don Juan much -longer. I do not wish to lose the parish of Taos in order to punish its -priest, my friend. I have no priest strong enough to put in his place. -You are the only man who could meet the situation there, and you are at -Albuquerque. A year from now I shall be in Rome, and there I hope to get -a Spanish missionary who will take over the parish of Taos. Only a -Spaniard would be welcomed there, I think." -</p> -<p> -"You are doubtless right," said Father Joseph. "I am often too hasty in -my judgments. I may do very badly for you while you are in Europe. For I -suppose I am to leave my dear Albuquerque, and come to Santa Fé while -you are gone?" -</p> -<p> -"Assuredly. They will love you all the more for lacking you awhile. I -hope to bring some more hardy Auvergnats back with me, young men from -our own Seminary, and I am afraid I must put one of them in Albuquerque. -You have been there long enough. You have done all that is necessary. I -need you here, Father Joseph. As it is now, one of us must ride seventy -miles whenever we wish to converse about anything." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sighed. "Ah, I supposed it would come! You will snatch -me from Albuquerque as you did from Sandusky. When I went there -everybody was my enemy, now everybody is my friend; therefore it is time -to go." Father Vaillant took off his glasses, folded them, and put them -in their case, which act always announced his determination to retire. -"So a year from now you will be in Rome. Well, I had rather be among my -people in Albuquerque, that I can say honestly. But Clermont,—there I -envy you. I should like to see my own mountains again. At least you will -see all my family and bring me word of them, and you can bring me the -vestments that my dear sister Philomène and her nuns have been making -for me these three years. I shall be very glad to have them." He rose, -and took up one of the candles. "And when you leave Clermont, Jean, put -a few chestnuts in your pocket for me!" -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE MISER</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N February Bishop Latour once more set out -on horseback over the Santa Fé trail, this time with Rome as his -objective. He was absent for nearly a year, and when he returned he -brought with him four young priests from his own Seminary of -Montferrand, and a Spanish priest, Father Taladrid, whom he had found in -Rome, and who was at once sent to Taos. At the Bishop's suggestion, -Padre Martinez formally resigned his parish, with the understanding that -he was still to celebrate Mass upon solemn occasions. Not only did he -avail himself of this privilege, but he continued to perform all -marriages and burial services and to dictate the lives of the -parishioners. Very soon he and Father Taladrid were at open war. -</p> -<p> -When the Bishop, unable to compose their differences, supported the new -priest, Father Martinez and his friend Father Lucero, of Arroyo Hondo, -mutinied; flatly refused to submit, and organized a church of their own. -This, they declared, was the old Holy Catholic Church of Mexico, while -the Bishop's church was an American institution. In both towns the -greater part of the population went over to the schismatic church, -though some pious Mexicans, in great perplexity, attended Mass at both. -Father Martinez printed a long and eloquent Proclamation (which very few -of his parishioners could read) giving an historical justification for -his schism, and denying the obligation of celibacy for the priesthood. -As both he and Father Lucero were well on in years, this particular -clause could be of little benefit to anyone in their new organization -except Trinidad. After the two old priests went off into schism, one of -their first solemn acts was to elevate Father Lucero's nephew to the -priesthood, and he acted as curate to them both, swinging back and forth -between Taos and Arroyo Hondo. -</p> -<p> -The schismatic church at least accomplished the rejuvenation of the two -rebellious priests at its head, and far and wide revived men's interest -in them,—though they had always furnished their people with plenty to -talk about. Ever since they were young men with adjoining parishes, they -had been friends, cronies, rivals, sometimes bitter enemies. But their -quarrels could never keep them apart for long. -</p> -<p> -Old Marino Lucero had not one trait in common with Martinez, except the -love of authority. He had been a miser from his youth, and lived down in -the sunken world of Arroyo Hondo in the barest poverty, though he was -supposed to be very rich. He used to boast that his house was as poor as -a burro's stable. His bed, his crucifix, and his bean-pot were his -furniture. He kept no live-stock but one poor mule, on which he rode -over to Taos to quarrel with his friend Martinez, or to get a solid dinner -when he was hungry. In his <i>casa</i> every day was Friday—unless -one of his neighbour women cooked a chicken and brought it in to him out -of pure compassion. For his people liked him. He was grasping, but not -oppressive, and he wrung more pesos out of Arroyo Seco and Questa than -out of his own arroyo. Thrift is such a rare quality among Mexicans that -they find it very amusing; his people loved to tell how he never bought -anything, but picked up old brooms after housewives had thrown them -away, and that he wore Padre Martinez's garments after the Padre would -have them no longer, though they were so much too big for him. One of -the priests' fiercest quarrels had come about because Martinez gave some -of his old clothes to a monk from Mexico who was studying at his house, -and who had not wherewithal to cover himself as winter came on. -</p> -<p> -The two priests had always talked shamelessly about each other. All -Martinez's best stories were about Lucero, and all Lucero's were about -Martinez. -</p> -<p> -"You see how it is," Padre Lucero would say to the young men at a -wedding party, "my way is better than old José Martinez's. His nose and -chin are getting to be close neighbours now, and a petticoat is not much -good to him any more. But I can still rise upright at the sight of a -dollar. With a new piece of money in my hand I am happier than ever; and -what can he do with a pretty girl but regret?" -</p> -<p> -Avarice, he assured them, was the one passion that grew stronger and -sweeter in old age. He had the lust for money as Martinez had for women, -and they had never been rivals in the pursuit of their pleasures. After -Trinidad was ordained and went to stay with his uncle, Father Lucero -complained that he had formed gross habits living with Martinez, and was -eating him out of house and home. Father Martinez told with delight how -Trinidad sponged upon the parish at Arroyo Hondo, and went about poking -his nose into one bean-pot after another. -</p> -<p> -When the Bishop could no longer remain deaf to the rebellion, he sent -Father Vaillant over to Taos to publish the warning for three weeks and -exhort the two priests to renounce their heresy. On the fourth Sunday -Father Joseph, who complained that he was always sent "<i>à fouetter les -chats</i>," solemnly read the letter in which the Bishop stripped Father -Martinez of the rights and privileges of the priesthood. On the -afternoon of the same day, he rode over to Arroyo Hondo, eighteen miles -away, and read a similar letter of excommunication against Father -Lucero. -</p> -<p> -Father Martinez continued at the head of his schismatic church until, -after a short illness, he died and was buried in schism, by Father -Lucero. Soon after this, Father Lucero himself fell into a decline. But -even after he was ailing he performed a feat which became one of the -legends of the country-side,—killed a robber in a midnight scuffle. -</p> -<p> -A wandering teamster who had been discharged from a wagon train for -theft, was picking up a living over in Taos and there heard the stories -about Father Lucero's hidden riches. He came to Arroyo Hondo to rob the -old man. Father Lucero was a light sleeper, and hearing stealthy sounds -in the middle of the night, he reached for the carving-knife he kept -hidden under his mattress and sprang upon the intruder. They began -fighting in the dark, and though the thief was a young man and armed, -the old priest stabbed him to death and then, covered with blood, ran -out to arouse the town. The neighbours found the Padre's chamber like a -slaughter-house, his victim hang dead beside the hole he had dug. They -were amazed at what the old man had been able to do. -</p> -<p> -But from the shock of that night Father Lucero never recovered. He -wasted away so rapidly that his people had the horse doctor come from -Taos to look at him. This veterinary was a Yankee who had been -successful in treating men as well as horses, but he said he could do -nothing for Father Lucero; he believed he had an internal tumour or a -cancer. -</p> -<p> -Padre Lucero died repentant, and Father Vaillant, who had pronounced his -excommunication, was the one to reconcile him to the Church. The Vicar -was in Taos on business for the Bishop, staying with Kit Carson and the -Señora. They were all sitting at supper one evening during a heavy -rain-storm, when a horseman rode up to the <i>portale</i>. Carson went out -to receive him. The visitor he brought in with him was Trinidad Lucero, who -took off his rubber coat and stood in a full-skirted cassock of Arroyo -Hondo make, a crucifix about his neck, seeming to fill the room with his -size and importance. After bowing ceremoniously to the Señora, he -addressed himself to Father Vaillant in his best English, speaking -slowly in his thick felty voice. -</p> -<p> -"I am the only nephew of Padre Lucero. My uncle is verra seek and soon -to die. She has vomit the blood." He dropped his eyes. -</p> -<p> -"Speak to me in your own language, man!" cried Father Joseph. "I can at -least do more with Spanish than you can with English. Now tell me what -you have to say of your uncle's condition." -</p> -<p> -Trinidad gave some account of his uncle's illness, repeating solemnly -the phrase, "She has vomit the blood," which he seemed to find -impressive. The sick man wished to see Father Vaillant, and begged that -he would come to him and give him the Sacrament. -</p> -<p> -Carson urged the Vicar to wait until morning, as the road down into "the -Hondo" would be badly washed by rain and dangerous to go over in the -dark. But Father Vaillant said if the road were bad he could go down on -foot. Excusing himself to the Señora Carson, he went to his room to put -on his riding-clothes and get his saddle-bags. Trinidad, upon -invitation, sat down at the empty place and made the most of his -opportunity. The host saddled Father Vaillant's mule, and the Vicar rode -away, with Trinidad for guide. -</p> -<p> -Not that he needed a guide to Arroyo Hondo, it was a place especially -dear to him, and he was always glad to find a pretext for going there. -How often he had ridden over there on fine days in summer, or in early -spring, before the green was out, when the whole country was pink and -blue and yellow, like a coloured map. -</p> -<p> -One approached over a sage-brush plain that appeared to run level and -unbroken to the base of the distant mountains; then without warning, one -suddenly found oneself upon the brink of a precipice, of a chasm in the -earth over two hundred feet deep, the sides sheer cliffs, but cliffs of -earth, not rock. Drawing rein at the edge, one looked down into a sunken -world of green fields and gardens, with a pink adobe town, at the bottom -of this great ditch. The men and mules walking about down there, or -plowing the fields, looked like the figures of a child's Noah's ark. -Down the middle of the arroyo, through the sunken fields and pastures, -flowed a rushing stream which came from the high mountains. Its original -source was so high, indeed, that by merely laying an open wooden trough -up the opposite side of the arroyo, the Mexicans conveyed the water to -the plateau at the top. This sluice was laid in sections that zigzagged -up the face of the cliff. Father Vaillant always stopped to watch the -water rushing up the side of the precipice like a thing alive; an -ever-ascending ladder of clear water, gurgling and clouding into silver -as it climbed. Only once before, he used to tell the natives, in Italy, -had he seen water run up hill like that. -</p> -<p> -The water thus diverted was but a tiny thread of the full creek; the -main stream ran down the arroyo over a white rock bottom, with green -willows and deep hay grass and brilliant wild flowers on its banks. -Evening primroses, the fireweed, and butterfly weed grew to a tropical -size and brilliance there among the sedges. -</p> -<p> -But this was the first time Father Vaillant had ever gone down into the -Hondo after dark, and at the edge of the cliff he decided not to put -Contento to so cruel a test. "He can do it," he said to Trinidad, "but I -will not make him." He dismounted and went on foot down the steep -winding trail. -</p> -<p> -They reached Father Lucero's house before midnight. Half the population -of the town seemed to be in attendance, and the place was lit up as if -for a festival. The sick man's chamber was full of Mexican women, -sitting about on the floor, wrapped in their black shawls, saying their -prayers with lighted candles before them. One could scarcely step for -the candles. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant beckoned to a woman he knew well, Conçeption Gonzales, -and asked her what was the meaning of this. She whispered that the dying -Padre would have it so. His sight was growing dim, and he kept calling -for more lights. All his life, Conçeption sighed, he had been so saving -of candles, and had mostly done with a pine splinter in the evenings. -</p> -<p> -In the corner, on the bed, Father Lucero was groaning and tossing, one -man rubbing his feet, and another wringing cloths out of hot water and -putting them on his stomach to dull the pain. Señora Gonzales whispered -that the sick man had been gnawing the sheets for pain; she had brought -over her best ones, and they were chewed to lacework across the top. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, "Get away from the bed a -little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles -blind me." -</p> -<p> -But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor, -the sick man called, "No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief -will come, and I will have nothing left." -</p> -<p> -The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat -down again. -</p> -<p> -Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked -nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They -burned up at Father Joseph,—great, black, glittering, distrustful -eyes. On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than -Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph's hand with a grip surprisingly -strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the -chest. -</p> -<p> -"Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that -the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to -hear." Father Lucero's voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his -parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. "Señor Vicario, -you remember Padre Martinez? You ought to, for you served him as badly -as you did me. Now listen:" -</p> -<p> -Father Lucero related that Martinez, before his death, had entrusted to -him a certain sum of money to be spent in masses for the repose of his -soul, these to be offered at his native church in Abiquiu. Lucero had -not used the money as he promised, but had buried it under the dirt -floor of this room, just below the large crucifix that hung on the wall -yonder. -</p> -<p> -At this point Father Vaillant again signalled to the women to withdraw, -but as they took up their candles, Father Lucero sat up in his -night-shirt and cried, "Stay as you are! Are you going to run away and -leave me with a stranger? I trust him no more than I do you! Oh, why did -God not make some way for a man to protect his own after death? Alive, I -can do it with my knife, old as I am. But after?"—— -</p> -<p> -The Señora Gonzales soothed Father Lucero, persuaded him to lie back -upon his pillows and tell them what he wanted them to do. He explained -that this money which he had taken in trust from Martinez was to be sent -to Abiquiu and used as the Padre had wished. Under the crucifix, and -under the floor beneath the bed on which he was lying, they would find -his own savings. One third of his hoard was for Trinidad. The rest was -to be spent in masses for his soul, and they were to be celebrated in -the old church of San Miguel in Santa Fé. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant assured him that all his wishes should be scrupulously -carried out, and now it was time for him to dismiss the cares of this -world and prepare his mind to receive the Sacrament. -</p> -<p> -"All in good time. But a man does not let go of this world so easily. -Where is Conçeption Gonzales? Come here, my daughter. See to it that -the money is taken up from under the floor while I am still in this -chamber, before my body is cold, that it is counted in the presence of -all these women, and the sum set down in writing." At this point, the -old man started, as with a new hope. "And Christobal, he is the man! -Christobal Carson must be here to count it and set it down. He is a just -man. Trinidad, you fool, why did you not bring Christobal?" -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant was scandalized. "Unless you compose yourself, Father -Lucero, and fix your thoughts upon Heaven, I shall refuse to administer -the Sacrament. In your present state of mind, it would be a sacrilege." -</p> -<p> -The old man folded his hands and closed his eyes in assent. Father -Vaillant went into the adjoining room to put on his cassock and stole, -and in his absence Conçeption Gonzales covered a small table by the bed -with one of her own white napkins and placed upon it two wax candles, -and a cup of water for the ministrant's hands. Father Vaillant came back -in his vestments, with his pyx and basin of holy water, and began -sprinkling the bed and the watchers, repeating the antiphon, <i>Asperges -me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor</i>. The women stole away, leaving their -lights upon the floor. Father Lucero made his confession, renouncing his -heresy and expressing contrition, after which he received the Sacrament. -</p> -<p> -The ceremony calmed the tormented man, and he lay quiet with his hands -folded on his breast. The women returned and sat murmuring prayers as -before. The rain drove against the window panes, the wind made a hollow -sound as it sucked down through the deep arroyo. Some of the watchers -were drooping from weariness, but not one showed any wish to go home. -Watching beside a death-bed was not a hardship for them, but a -privilege,—in the case of a dying priest it was a distinction. -</p> -<p> -In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social -importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs -ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul -made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness -through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there -was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he -alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and -on his features would fall some light or shadow from beyond. The "Last -Words" of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in -gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man and woman were -listened for and treasured by their neighbours and kinsfolk. These -sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and -pondered by those who must one day go the same road. -</p> -<p> -The stillness of the death chamber was suddenly broken when Trinidad -Lucero knelt down before the crucifix on the wall to pray. His uncle, -though all thought him asleep, began to struggle and cry out, "A thief! -Help, help!" Trinidad retired quickly, but after that the old man lay -with one eye open, and no one dared go near the crucifix. -</p> -<p> -About an hour before day-break the Padre's breathing became so painful -that two of the men got behind him and lifted his pillows. The women -whispered that his face was changing, and they brought their candles -nearer, kneeling close beside his bed. His eyes were alive and had -perception in them. He rolled his head to one side and lay looking -intently down into the candlelight, without blinking, while his -features sharpened. Several times his lips twitched back over his teeth. -The watchers held their breath, feeling sure that he would speak before -he passed,—and he did. After a facial spasm that was like a sardonic -smile, and a clicking of breath in his mouth, their Padre spoke like a -horse for the last time: -</p> -<p> -"<i>Comete tu cola, Martinez, comete tu cola</i>!" (Eat your tail, -Martinez, eat your tail!) Almost at once he died in a convulsion. -</p> -<p> -After day-break Trinidad went forth declaring (and the Mexican women -confirmed him) that at the moment of death Father Lucero had looked into -the other world and beheld Padre Martinez in torment. As long as the -Christians who were about that death-bed lived, the story was whispered -in Arroyo Hondo. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When the floor of the priest's house was taken up, according to his last -instructions, people came from as far as Taos and Santa Cruz and Mora to -see the buckskin bags of gold and silver coin that were buried beneath -it. Spanish coins, French, American, English, some of them very old. -When it was at length conveyed to a Government mint and examined, it was -valued at nearly twenty thousand dollars in American money. A great sum -for one old priest to have scraped together in a country parish down at -the bottom of a ditch. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap06"></a>BOOK SIX -<br><br> -<i>DOÑA ISABELLA</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>DON ANTONIO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">B</span>ISHOP LATOUR had one very keen worldly -ambition; to build in Santa Fé a cathedral which would be worthy of a -setting naturally beautiful. As he cherished this wish and meditated -upon it, he came to feel that such a building might be a continuation of -himself and his purpose, a physical body full of his aspirations after -he had passed from the scene. Early in his administration he began -setting aside something from his meagre resources for a cathedral fund. -In this he was assisted by certain of the rich Mexican <i>rancheros</i>, -but by no one so much as by Don Antonio Olivares. -</p> -<p> -Antonio Olivares was the most intelligent and prosperous member of a -large family of brothers and cousins, and he was for that time and place -a man of wide experience, a man of the world. He had spent the greater -part of his life in New Orleans and El Paso del Norte, but he returned -to live in Santa Fé several years after Bishop Latour took up his -duties there. He brought with him his American wife and a wagon train of -furniture, and settled down to spend his declining years in the old -ranch house just east of the town where he was born and had grown up. He -was then a man of sixty. In early manhood he had lost his first wife; -after he went to New Orleans he had married a second time, a Kentucky -girl who had grown up among her relatives in Louisiana. She was pretty -and accomplished, had been educated at a French convent, and had done -much to Europeanize her husband. The refinement of his dress and -manners, and his lavish style of living, provoked half-contemptuous envy -among his brothers and their friends. -</p> -<p> -Olivares's wife, Doña Isabella, was a devout Catholic, and at their -house the French priests were always welcome and were most cordially -entertained. The Señora Olivares had made a pleasant place of the -rambling adobe building, with its great courtyard and gateway, carved -joists and beams, fine herring-bone ceilings and snug fire-places. She -was a gracious hostess, and though no longer very young, she was still -attractive to the eye; a slight woman, spirited, quick in movement, with -a delicate blonde complexion which she had successfully guarded in -trying climates, and fair hair—a little silvered, and perhaps worn in -too many puffs and ringlets for the sharpening outline of her face. She -spoke French well, Spanish lamely, played the harp, and sang agreeably. -</p> -<p> -Certainly it was a great piece of luck for Father Latour and Father -Vaillant, who lived so much among peons and Indians and rough -frontiersmen, to be able to converse in their own tongue now and then -with a cultivated woman; to sit by that hospitable fireside, in rooms -enriched by old mirrors and engravings and upholstered chairs, where the -windows had clean curtains, and the sideboard and cupboards were stocked -with plate and Belgian glass. It was refreshing to spend an evening with -a couple who were interested in what was going on in the outside world, -to eat a good dinner and drink good wine, and listen to music. Father -Joseph, that man of inconsistencies, had a pleasing tenor voice, true -though not strong. Madame Olivares liked to sing old French songs with -him. She was a trifle vain, it must be owned, and when she sang at all, -insisted upon singing in three languages, never forgetting her husband's -favourites, "La Paloma" and "La Golandrina," and "My Nelly Was A Lady." -The negro melodies of Stephen Foster had already travelled to the -frontier, going along the river highways, not in print, but passed on -from one humble singer to another. -</p> -<p> -Don Antonio was a large man, heavy, full at the belt, a trifle bald, and -very slow of speech. But his eyes were lively, and the yellow spark in -them was often most perceptible when he was quite silent. It was -interesting to observe him after dinner, settled in one of his big -chairs from New Orleans, a cigar between his long golden-brown fingers, -watching his wife at her harp. -</p> -<p> -There was gossip about the lady in Santa Fé, of course, since she had -retained her beautiful complexion and her husband's devoted regard for -so many years. The Americans and the Olivares brothers said she dressed -much too youthfully, which was perhaps true, and that she had lovers in -New Orleans and El Paso del Norte. Her nephews-in-law went so far as to -declare that she was enamoured of the Mexican boy the Olivares had -brought up from San Antonio to play the banjo for them,—they both -loved music, and this boy, Pablo, was a magician with his instrument. All -sorts of stories went out from the kitchen; that Doña Isabella had a -whole chamber full of dresses so grand that she never wore them here at -all; that she took gold from her husband's pockets and hid it under the -floor of her room; that she gave him love potions and herb-teas to -increase his ardour. This gossip did not mean that her servants were -disloyal, but rather that they were proud of their mistress. -</p> -<p> -Olivares, who read the newspapers, though they were weeks old when he -got them, who liked cigars better than cigarettes, and French wine -better than whisky, had little in common with his younger brothers. Next -to his old friend Manuel Chavez, the two French priests were the men in -Santa Fé whose company he most enjoyed, and he let them see it. He was -a man who cherished his friends. He liked to call at the Bishop's house -to advise him about the care of his young orchard, or to leave a bottle -of home-made cherry brandy for Father Joseph. It was Olivares who -presented Father Latour with the silver hand-basin and pitcher and -toilet accessories which gave him so much satisfaction all the rest of -his life. There were good silversmiths among the Mexicans of Santa Fé, -and Don Antonio had his own toilet-set copied in hammered silver for his -friend. Doña Isabella once remarked that her husband always gave Father -Vaillant something good for the palate, and Father Latour something good -for the eye. -</p> -<p> -This couple had one child, a daughter, the Señorita Inez, born long ago -and still unmarried. Indeed, it was generally understood that she would -never marry. Though she had not taken the veil, her life was that of a -nun. She was very plain and had none of her mother's social graces, but -she had a beautiful contralto voice. She sang in the Cathedral choir in -New Orleans, and taught singing in a convent there. She came to visit -her parents only once after they settled in Santa Fé, and she was a -somewhat sombre figure in that convivial household. Doña Isabella -seemed devotedly attached to her, but afraid of displeasing her. While -Inez was there, her mother dressed very plainly, pinned back the little -curls that hung over her right ear, and the two women went to church -together all day long. -</p> -<p> -Antonio Olivares was deeply interested in the Bishop's dream of a -cathedral. For one thing, he saw that Father Latour had set his heart on -building one, and Olivares was the sort of man who liked to help a -friend accomplish the desire of his heart. Furthermore, he had a deep -affection for his native town, he had travelled and seen fine churches, -and he wished there might some day be one in Santa Fé. Many a night he -and Father Latour talked of it by the fire; discussed the site, the -design, the building stone, the cost and the grave difficulties of -raising money. It was the Bishop's hope to begin work upon the building -in 1860, ten years after his appointment to the Bishopric. One night, at -a long-remembered New Year's party in his house, Olivares announced in -the presence of his guests that before the new year was gone he meant to -give to the Cathedral fund a sum sufficient to enable Father Latour to -carry out his purpose. -</p> -<p> -That supper party at the Olivares' was memorable because of this pledge, -and because it marked a parting of old friends. Doña Isabella was -entertaining the officers at the Post, two of whom had received orders -to leave Santa Fé. The popular Commandant was called back to -Washington, the young lieutenant of cavalry, an Irish Catholic, lately -married and very dear to Father Latour, was to be sent farther west. -(Before the next New Year's Day came round he was killed in Indian -warfare on the plains of Arizona.) -</p> -<p> -But that night the future troubled nobody; the house was full of light -and music, the air warm with that simple hospitality of the frontier, -where people dwell in exile, far from their kindred, where they lead -rough lives and seldom meet together for pleasure. Kit Carson, who -greatly admired Madame Olivares, had come the two days' journey from -Taos to be present that night, and brought along his gentle half-breed -daughter, lately home from a convent school in St. Louis. On this -occasion he wore a handsome buckskin coat, embroidered in silver, with -brown velvet cuffs and collar. The officers from the Fort were in dress -uniform, the host as usual wore a broadcloth frock-coat. His wife was in -a hoop-skirt, a French dress from New Orleans, all covered with little -garlands of pink satin roses. The military ladies came out to the -Olivares place in an army wagon, to keep their satin shoes from the mud. -The Bishop had put on his violet vest, which he seldom wore, and Father -Vaillant had donned a fresh new cassock, made by the loving hands of his -sister Philomène, in Riom. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had used to feel a little ashamed that Joseph kept his -sister and her nuns so busy making cassocks and vestments for him; but -the last time he was in France he came to see all this in another light. -When he was visiting Mother Philomène's convent, one of the younger -Sisters had confided to him what an inspiration it was to them, living -in retirement, to work for the far-away missions. She told him also how -precious to them were Father Vaillant's long letters, letters in which -he told his sister of the country, the Indians, the pious Mexican women, -the Spanish martyrs of old. These letters, she said, Mother Philomène -read aloud in the evening. The nun took Father Latour to a window that -jutted out and looked up the narrow street to where the wall turned at -an angle, cutting off further view. "Look," she said, "after the Mother -has read us one of those letters from her brother, I come and stand in -this alcove and look up our little street with its one lamp, and just -beyond the turn there, is New Mexico; all that he has written us of -those red deserts and blue mountains, the great plains and the herds of -bison, and the canyons more profound than our deepest mountain gorges. I -can feel that I am there, my heart beats faster, and it seems but a -moment until the retiring-bell cuts short my dreams." The Bishop went -away believing that it was good for these Sisters to work for Father -Joseph. -</p> -<p> -To-night, when Madame Olivares was complimenting Father Vaillant on the -sheen of his poplin and velvet, for some reason Father Latour recalled -that moment with the nun in her alcove window, her white face, her -burning eyes, and sighed. -</p> -<p> -After supper was over and the toasts had been drunk, the boy Pablo was -called in to play for the company while the gentlemen smoked. The banjo -always remained a foreign instrument to Father Latour; he found it more -than a little savage. When this strange yellow boy played it, there was -softness and languor in the wire strings—but there was also a kind -of madness; the recklessness, the call of wild countries which all these -men had felt and followed in one way or another. Through clouds of cigar -smoke, the scout and the soldiers, the Mexican <i>rancheros</i> and the -priests, sat silently watching the bent head and crouching shoulders of -the banjo player, and his seesawing yellow hand, which sometimes lost -all form and became a mere whirl of matter in motion, like a patch of -sand-storm. -</p> -<p> -Observing them thus in repose, in the act of reflection, Father Latour -was thinking how each of these men not only had a story, but seemed to -have become his story. Those anxious, far-seeing blue eyes of Carson's, -to whom could they belong but to a scout and trail-breaker? Don Manuel -Chavez, the handsomest man of the company, very elegant in velvet and -broadcloth, with delicately cut, disdainful features,—one had only to -see him cross the room, or to sit next him at dinner, to feel the -electric quality under his cold reserve; the fierceness of some -embitterment, the passion for danger. -</p> -<p> -Chavez boasted his descent from two Castilian knights who freed the city -of Chavez from the Moors in 1160. He had estates in the Pecos and in the -San Mateo mountains, and a house in Santa Fé, where he hid himself -behind his beautiful trees and gardens. He loved the natural beauties of -his country with a passion, and he hated the Americans who were blind to -them. He was jealous of Carson's fame as an Indian-fighter, declaring -that he had seen more Indian warfare before he was twenty than Carson -would ever see. He was easily Carson's rival as a pistol shot. With the -bow and arrow he had no rival; he had never been beaten. No Indian had -ever been known to shoot an arrow as far as Chavez. Every year parties -of Indians came up to the Villa to shoot with him for wagers. His house -and stables were full of trophies. He took a cool pleasure in stripping -the Indians of their horses or silver or blankets, or whatever they had -put up on their man. He was proud of his skill with Indian weapons; he -had acquired it in a hard school. -</p> -<p> -When he was a lad of sixteen Manuel Chavez had gone out with a party of -Mexican youths to hunt Navajos. In those days, before the American -occupation, "hunting Navajos" needed no pretext, it was a form of sport. -A company of Mexicans would ride west to the Navajo country, raid a few -sheep camps, and come home bringing flocks and ponies and a bunch of -prisoners, for every one of whom they received a large bounty from the -Mexican Government. It was with such a raiding party that the boy Chavez -went out for spoil and adventure. -</p> -<p> -Finding no Indians abroad, the young Mexicans pushed on farther than -they had intended. They did not know that it was the season when all the -roving Navajo bands gather at the Canyon de Chelly for their religious -ceremonies, and they rode on impetuously until they came out upon the -rim of that mysterious and terrifying canyon itself, then swarming with -Indians. They were immediately surrounded, and retreat was impossible. -They fought on the naked sandstone ledges that overhang that gulf. Don -José Chavez, Manuel's older brother, was captain of the party, and was -one of the first to fall. The company of fifty were slaughtered to a -man. Manuel was the fifty-first, and he survived. With seven arrow -wounds, and one shaft clear through his body, he was left for dead in a -pile of corpses. -</p> -<p> -That night, while the Navajos were celebrating their victory, the boy -crawled along the rocks until he had high boulders between him and the -enemy, and then started eastward on foot. It was summer, and the heat of -that red sandstone country is intense. His wounds were on fire. But he -had the superb vitality of early youth. He walked for two days and -nights without finding a drop of water, covering a distance of sixty odd -miles, across the plain, across the mountain, until he came to the -famous spring on the other side, where Fort Defiance was afterward -built. There he drank and bathed his wounds and slept. He had had no -food since the morning before the fight; near the spring he found some -large cactus plants, and slicing away the spines with his hunting-knife, -he filled his stomach with the juicy pulp. -</p> -<p> -From here, still without meeting a human creature, he stumbled on until -he reached the San Mateo mountain, north of Laguna. In a mountain valley -he came upon a camp of Mexican shepherds, and fell unconscious. The -shepherds made a litter of saplings and their sheepskin coats and -carried him into the village of Cebolleta, where he lay delirious for -many days. Years afterward, when Chavez came into his inheritance, he -bought that beautiful valley in the San Mateo mountain where he had sunk -unconscious under two noble oak trees. He built a house between those -twin oaks, and made a fine estate there. -</p> -<p> -Never reconciled to American rule, Chavez lived in seclusion when he was -in Santa Fé. At the first rumour of an Indian outbreak, near or far, he -rode off to add a few more scalps to his record. He distrusted the new -Bishop because of his friendliness toward Indians and Yankees. Besides, -Chavez was a Martinez man. He had come here to-night only in compliment -to Señora Olivares; he hated to spend an evening among American -uniforms. -</p> -<p> -When the banjo player was exhausted, Father Joseph said that as for him, -he would like a little drawing-room music, and he led Madame Olivares to -her harp. She was very charming at her instrument; the pose suited her -tip-tilted canary head, and her little foot and white arms. -</p> -<p> -This was the last time the Bishop heard her sing "La Paloma" for her -admiring husband, whose eyes smiled at her even when his heavy face -seemed asleep. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Olivares died on Septuagesima Sunday—fell over by his own fire-place -when he was lighting the candles after supper, and the banjo boy was -sent running for the Bishop. Before midnight two of the Olivares -brothers, half drunk with brandy and excitement, galloped out of Santa -Fé, on the road to Albuquerque, to employ an American lawyer. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE LADY</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>NTONIO OLIVARES'S funeral was the most -solemn and magnificent ever seen in Santa Fé, but Father Vaillant was -not there. He was off on a long missionary journey to the south, and did -not reach home until Madame Olivares had been a widow for some weeks. He -had scarcely got off his riding-boots when he was called into Father -Latour's study to see her lawyer. -</p> -<p> -Olivares had entrusted the management of his affairs to a young Irish -Catholic, Boyd O'Reilly, who had come out from Boston to practise law in -the new Territory. There were no steel safes in Santa Fé at that time, -but O'Reilly had kept Olivares's will in his strong-box. The document -was brief and clear: Antonio's estate amounted to about two hundred -thousand dollars in American money (a considerable fortune in those -days). The income therefrom was to be enjoyed by "my wife, Isabella -Olivares, and her daughter, Inez Olivares," during their lives, and -after their decease his property was to go to the Church, to the Society -for the Propagation of the Faith. The codicil, in favour of the -Cathedral fund, had, unfortunately, never been added to the will. -</p> -<p> -The young lawyer explained to Father Vaillant that the Olivares brothers -had retained the leading legal firm of Albuquerque and were contesting -the will. Their point of attack was that Señorita Inez was too old to -be the daughter of the Señora Olivares. Don Antonio had been a -promiscuous lover in his young days, and his brothers held that Inez was -the offspring of some temporary attachment, and had been adopted by -Doña Isabella. O'Reilly had sent to New Orleans for an attested copy of -the marriage record of the Olivares couple, and the birth certificate of -Señorita Inez. But in Kentucky, where the Señora was born, no birth -records were kept; there was no document to prove the age of Isabella -Olivares, and she could not be persuaded to admit her true age. It was -generally believed in Santa Fé that she was still in her early forties, -in which case she would not have been more than six or eight years old -at the date when Inez was born. In reality the lady was past fifty, but -when O'Reilly had tried to persuade her to admit this in court, she -simply refused to listen to him. He begged the Bishop and the Vicar to -use their influence with her to this end. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour shrank from interfering in so delicate a matter, but -Father Vaillant saw at once that it was their plain duty to protect the -two women and, at the same time, secure the rights of the Propaganda. -Without more ado he threw on his old cloak over his cassock, and the -three men set off through the red mud to the Olivares hacienda in the -hills east of the town. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph had not been to the Olivares' house since the night of the -New Year's party, and he sighed as he approached the place, already -transformed by neglect. The big gate was propped open by a pole because -the iron hook was gone, the courtyard was littered with rags and meat -bones which the dogs had carried there and no one had taken away. The -big parrot cage, hanging in the <i>portale</i>, was filthy, and the birds -were squalling. When O'Reilly rang the bell at the outer gate, Pablo, -the banjo player, came running out with tousled hair and a dirty shirt -to admit the visitors. He took them into the long living-room, which was -empty and cold, the fire-place dark, the hearth unswept. Chairs and -window-sills were deep in red dust, the glass panes dirty, and streaked -as if by tear-drops. On the writing-table were empty bottles and sticky -glasses and cigar ends. In one corner stood the harp in its green cover. -</p> -<p> -Pablo asked the Fathers to be seated. His mistress was staying in bed, -he said, and the cook had burnt her hand, and the other maids were lazy. -He brought wood and laid a fire. -</p> -<p> -After some time, Doña Isabella entered, dressed in heavy mourning, her -face very white against the black, and her eyes red. The curls about her -neck and ears were pale, too—quite ashen. -</p> -<p> -After Father Vaillant had greeted her and spoken consoling words, the -young lawyer began once more gently to explain to her the difficulties -that confronted them, and what they must do to defeat the action of the -Olivares family. She sat submissively, touching her eyes and nose with -her little lace handkerchief, and clearly not even trying to understand -a word of what he said to her. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph soon lost patience and himself approached the widow. "You -understand, my child," he began briskly, "that your husband's brothers -are determined to disregard his wishes, to defraud you and your -daughter, and, eventually, the Church. This is no time for childish -vanity. To prevent this outrage to your husband's memory, you must -satisfy the court that you are old enough to be the mother of -Mademoiselle Inez. You must resolutely declare your true age; -fifty-three, is it not?" -</p> -<p> -Doña Isabella became pallid with fright. She shrank into one end of the -deep sofa, but her blue eyes focused and gathered light, as she became -intensely, rigidly animated in her corner,—her back against the wall, -as it were. -</p> -<p> -"Fifty-three!" she cried in a voice of horrified amazement. "Why, I -never heard of anything so outrageous! I was forty-two my last birthday. -It was in December, the fourth of December. If Antonio were here, he -would tell you! And he wouldn't let you scold me and talk about business -to me, either, Father Joseph. He never let anybody talk about business -to me!" She hid her face in her little handkerchief and began to cry. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour checked his impetuous Vicar, and sat down on the sofa -beside Madame Olivares, feeling very sorry for her and speaking very -gently. "Forty-two to your friends, dear Madame Olivares, and to the -world. In heart and face you are younger than that. But to the Law and -the Church there must be a literal reckoning. A formal statement in -court will not make you any older to your friends; it will not add one -line to your face. A woman, you know, is as old as she looks." -</p> -<p> -"That's very sweet of you to say, Bishop Latour," the lady quavered, -looking up at him with tearbright eyes. "But I never could hold up my -head again. Let the Olivares have that old money. I don't want it." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sprang up and glared down at her as if he could put -common sense into her drooping head by the mere intensity of his gaze. -"Four hundred thousand pesos, Señora Isabella!" he cried. "Ease and -comfort for you and your daughter all the rest of your lives. Would you -make your daughter a beggar? The Olivares will take everything." -</p> -<p> -"I can't help it about Inez," she pleaded. "Inez means to go into the -convent anyway. And I don't care about the money. <i>Ah, mon père, je -voudrais mieux être jeune et mendiante, que n'être que vieille et -riche, certes, oui</i>!" -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph caught her icy cold hand. "And have you a right to defraud -the Church of what is left to it in your trust? Have you thought of the -consequences to yourself of such a betrayal?" -</p> -<p> -Father Latour glanced sternly at his Vicar. "<i>Assez</i>," he said -quietly. He took the little hand Father Joseph had released and bent -over it, kissing it respectfully. "We must not press this any further. -We must leave this to Madame Olivares and her own conscience. I believe, -my daughter, you will come to realize that this sacrifice of your vanity -would be for your soul's peace. Looking merely at the temporal aspect of -the case, you would find poverty hard to bear. You would have to live -upon the Olivares's charity, would you not? I do not wish to see this -come about. I have a selfish interest; I wish you to be always your -charming self and to make a little <i>poésie</i> in life for us here. -We have not much of that." -</p> -<p> -Madame Olivares stopped crying. She raised her head and sat drying her -eyes. Suddenly she took hold of one of the buttons on the Bishop's -cassock and began twisting it with nervous fingers. -</p> -<p> -"Father," she said timidly, "what is the youngest I could possibly be, -to be Inez's mother?" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop could not pronounce the verdict; he hesitated, flushed, then -passed it on to O'Reilly with an open gesture of his fine white hand. -</p> -<p> -"Fifty-two, Señora Olivares," said the young man respectfully. "If I -can get you to admit that, and stick to it, I feel sure we will win our -case." -</p> -<p> -"Very well, Mr. O'Reilly." She bowed her head. As her visitors rose, she -sat looking down at the dust-covered rugs. "Before everybody!" she -murmured, as if to herself. -</p> -<p> -When they were tramping home, Father Joseph said that as for him, he -would rather combat the superstitions of a whole Indian pueblo than the -vanity of one white woman. -</p> -<p> -"And I would rather do almost anything than go through such a scene -again," said the Bishop with a frown. "I don't think I ever assisted at -anything so cruel." -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Boyd O'Reilly defeated the Olivares brothers and won his case. The -Bishop would not go to the court hearing, but Father Vaillant was there, -standing in the malodorous crowd (there were no chairs in the court -room), and his knees shook under him when the young lawyer, with the -fierceness born of fright, poked his finger at his client and said: -</p> -<p> -"Señora Olivares, you are fifty-two years of age, are you not?" -</p> -<p> -Madame Olivares was swathed in mourning, her face a streak of shadowed -white between folds of black veil. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, sir." The crape barely let it through. -</p> -<p> -The night after the verdict was pronounced, Manuel Chavez, with several -of Antonio's old friends, called upon the widow to congratulate her. -Word of their intention had gone about the town and put others in the -mood to call at a house that had been closed to visitors for so long. A -considerable company gathered there that evening, including some of the -military people, and several hereditary enemies of the Olivares -brothers. -</p> -<p> -The cook, stimulated by the sight of the long sala full of people once -more, hastily improvised a supper. Pablo put on a white shirt and a -velvet jacket, and began to carry up from the cellar his late master's -best whisky and sherry, and quarts of champagne. (The Mexicans are very -fond of sparkling wines. Only a few years before this, an American -trader who had got into serious political trouble with the Mexican -military authorities in Santa Fé, regained their confidence and -friendship by presenting them with a large wagon shipment of -champagne—three thousand, three hundred and ninety-two bottles, -indeed!) -</p> -<p> -This hospitable mood came upon the house suddenly, nothing had been -prepared beforehand. The wineglasses were full of dust, but Pablo wiped -them out with the shirt he had just taken off, and without instructions -from anyone he began gliding about with a tray full of glasses, which he -afterward refilled many times, taking his station at the sideboard. -Even Doña Isabella drank a little champagne; when she had sipped one -glass with the young Georgia captain, she could not refuse to take -another with their nearest neighbour, Ferdinand Sanchez, always a true -friend to her husband. Everyone was gay, the servants and the guests, -everything sparkled like a garden after a shower. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour and Father Vaillant, having heard nothing of this -spontaneous gathering of friends, set off at eight o'clock to make a -call upon the brave widow. When they entered the courtyard, they were -astonished to hear music within, and to see light streaming from the -long row of windows behind the <i>portale</i>. Without stopping to knock, -they opened the door into the <i>sala</i>. Many candles were burning. -Señors were standing about in long frock-coats buttoned over full figures. -O'Reilly and a group of officers from the Fort surrounded the sideboard, -where Pablo, with a white napkin wrapped showily about his wrist, was -pouring champagne. From the other end of the room sounded the high -tinkle of the harp, and Doña Isabella's voice: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"<i>Listen to the mocking-bird</i>,</span><br> -<span class="i2"><i>Listen to the mocking-bird!</i>"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -The priests waited in the doorway until the song was finished, then went -forward to pay their respects to the hostess. She was wearing the -unrelieved white that grief permitted, and the yellow curls were bobbing -as of old—three behind her right ear, one over either temple, and a -little row across the back of her neck. As she saw the two black figures -approaching, she dropped her arms from the harp, took her satin toe from -the pedal, and rose, holding out a hand to each. Her eyes were bright, -and her face beamed with affection for her spiritual fathers. But her -greeting was a playful reproach, uttered loud enough to be heard above -the murmur of conversing groups: -</p> -<p> -"I never shall forgive you, Father Joseph, nor you either, Bishop -Latour, for that awful lie you made me tell in court about my age!" -</p> -<p> -The two churchmen bowed amid laughter and applause. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap07"></a>BOOK SEVEN -<br><br> -<i>THE GREAT DIOCESE</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE MONTH OF MARY</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Bishop's work was sometimes assisted, -often impeded, by external events. -</p> -<p> -By the Gadsden Purchase, executed three years after Father Latour came -to Santa Fé, the United States took over from Mexico a great territory -which now forms southern New Mexico and Arizona. The authorities at Rome -notified Father Latour that this new territory was to be annexed to his -diocese, but that as the national boundary lines often cut parishes in -two, the boundaries of Church jurisdiction must be settled by conference -with the Mexican Bishops of Chihuahua and Sonora. Such conferences would -necessitate a journey of nearly four thousand miles. As Father Vaillant -remarked, at Rome they did not seem to realize that it was no easy -matter for two missionaries on horseback to keep up with the march of -history. -</p> -<p> -The question hung fire for some years, the subject of voluminous -correspondence. At last, in 1858, Father Vaillant was sent to arrange -the debated boundaries with the Mexican Bishops. He started in the -autumn and spent the whole winter on the road, going from El Paso del -Norte west to Tucson, on to Santa Magdalena and Guaymas, a seaport town -on the Gulf of California, and did some seafaring on the Pacific before -he turned homeward. -</p> -<p> -On his return trip he was stricken with malarial fever, resulting from -exposure and bad water, and lay seriously ill in a cactus desert in -Arizona. Word of his illness came to Santa Fé by an Indian runner, and -Father Latour and Jacinto rode across New Mexico and half of Arizona, -found Father Vaillant, and brought him back by easy stages. -</p> -<p> -He was ill in the Bishop's house for two months. This was the first -spring that he and Father Latour had both been there at the same time, -to enjoy the garden they had laid out soon after they first came to -Santa Fé. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -It was the month of Mary and the month of May. Father Vaillant was lying -on an army cot, covered with blankets, under the grape arbour in the -garden, watching the Bishop and his gardener at work in the vegetable -plots. The apple trees were in blossom, the cherry blooms had gone by. -The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the -soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air -one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot -had a reflection of blue sky in it. -</p> -<p> -This garden had been laid out six years ago, when the Bishop brought his -fruit trees (then dry switches) up from St. Louis in wagons, along with -the blessed Sisters of Loretto, who came to found the Academy of Our -Lady of Light. The school was now well established, reckoned a benefit -to the community by Protestants as well as Catholics, and the trees were -bearing. Cuttings from them were already yielding fruit in many Mexican -gardens. While the Bishop was away on that first trip to Baltimore, -Father Joseph had, in addition to his many official duties, found time -to instruct their Mexican housekeeper, Fructosa, in cookery. Later -Bishop Latour took in hand Fructosa's husband, Tranquilino, and trained -him as a gardener. They had boldly planned for the future; the ground -behind the church, between the Bishop's house and the Academy, they laid -out as a spacious orchard and kitchen-garden. Ever since then the Bishop -had worked on it, planting and pruning. It was his only recreation. -</p> -<p> -A line of young poplars linked the Episcopal courtyard with the school. -On the south, against the earth wall, was the one row of trees they had -found growing there when they first came,—old, old tamarisks, with -twisted trunks. They had been so neglected, left to fight for life in -such hard, sun-baked, burro-trodden ground, that their trunks had the -hardness of cypress. They looked, indeed, like very old posts, well -seasoned and polished by time, miraculously endowed with the power to -burst into delicate foliage and flowers, to cover themselves with long -brooms of lavender-pink blossom. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph had come to love the tamarisk above all trees. It had been -the companion of his wanderings. All along his way through the deserts -of New Mexico and Arizona, wherever he had come upon a Mexican -homestead, out of the sun-baked earth, against the sun-baked adobe -walls, the tamarisk waved its feathery plumes of bluish green. The -family burro was tied to its trunk, the chickens scratched under it, the -dogs slept in its shade, the washing was hung on its branches. Father -Latour had often remarked that this tree seemed especially designed in -shape and colour for the adobe village. The sprays of bloom which adorn -it are merely another shade of the red earth walls, and its fibrous -trunk is full of gold and lavender tints. Father Joseph respected the -Bishop's eye for such things, but himself he loved it merely because it -was the tree of the people, and was like one of the family in every -Mexican household. -</p> -<p> -This was a very happy season for Father Vaillant. For years he had not -been able properly to observe this month which in his boyhood he had -selected to be the holy month of the year for him, dedicated to the -contemplation of his Gracious Patroness. In his former missionary life, -on the Great Lakes, he used always to go into retreat at this season. -But here there was no time for such things. Last year, in May, he had -been on his way to the Hopi Indians, riding thirty miles a day; -marrying, baptizing, confessing as he went, making camp in the -sand-hills at night. His devotions had been constantly interrupted by -practical considerations. -</p> -<p> -But this year, because of his illness, the month of Mary he had been -able to give to Mary; to Her he had consecrated his waking hours. At -night he sank to sleep with the sense of Her protection. In the morning -when he awoke, before he had opened his eyes, he was conscious of a -special sweetness in the air,—Mary, and the month of May. <i>Alma -Mater redemptoris</i>! Once more he had been able to worship with the -ardour of a young religious, for whom religion is pure personal -devotion, unalloyed by expediency and the benumbing cares of a -missionary's work. Once again this had been his month; his Patroness had -given it to him, the season that had always meant so much in his -religious life. -</p> -<p> -He smiled to remember a time long ago, when he was a young curate in -Cendre, in the Puy-de-Dôm; how he had planned a season of special -devotion to the Blessed Virgin for May, and how the old priest to whom -he was assistant had blasted his hopes by cold disapproval. The old man -had come through the Terror, had been trained in the austerity of those -days of the persecution of the clergy, and he was not untouched by -Jansenism. Young Father Joseph bore his rebuke with meekness, and went -sadly to his own chamber. There he took his rosary and spent the entire -day in prayer. "<i>Not according to my desires, but if it is for thy -glory, grant me this boon, O Mary, my hope</i>." In the evening of that -same day the old pastor sent for him, and unsolicited granted him the -request he had so sternly denied in the morning. How joyfully Father -Joseph had written all this to his sister Philomène, then a pupil with -the nuns of the Visitation in their native Riom, begging her to make him -a quantity of artificial flowers for his May altar. How richly she had -responded!—and she rejoiced no less than he that his May devotions -were so largely attended, especially by the young people of the parish, in -whom a notable increase of piety was manifest. Father Vaillant's had -been a close-knit family—losing their mother while they were yet -children had brought the brothers and sisters the closer together—and -with this sister, Philomène, he had shared all his hopes and desires -and his deepest religious life. -</p> -<p> -Ever since then, all the most important events in his own history had -occurred in the blessed month when this sinful and sullied world puts on -white as if to commemorate the Annunciation, and becomes, for a little, -lovely enough to be in truth the Bride of Christ. It was in May that he -had been given grace to perform the hardest act of his life; to leave -his country, to part from his dear sister and his father (under what sad -circumstances!), and to start for the New World to take up a -missionary's labours. That parting was not a parting, but an escape—a -running away, a betrayal of family trust for the sake of a higher trust. -He could smile at it now, but at the time it had been terrible enough. -The Bishop, thinning carrots yonder, would remember. It was because of -what Father Latour had been to him in that hour, indeed, that Father -Joseph was here in a garden in Santa Fé. He would never have left his -dear Sandusky when the newly appointed Bishop asked him to share his -hardships, had he not said to himself: "Ah, now it is he who is torn by -perplexity! I will be to him now what he was to me that day when we -stood by the road-side, waiting for the <i>diligence</i> to Paris, and my -purpose broke, and he saved me." -</p> -<p> -That time came back upon Father Vaillant now so keenly that he wiped a -little moisture from his eyes,—(he was quickly moved, after the way -of sick people) and he cleared his glasses and called: -</p> -<p> -"Father Latour, it is time for you to rest your back. You have been -stooping over a great while." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop came and sat down in a wheelbarrow that stood at the edge of -the arbour. -</p> -<p> -"I have been thinking that I shall no longer pray for your speedy -recovery, Joseph. The only way I can keep my Vicar within call is to -have him sick." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph smiled. -</p> -<p> -"You are not in Santa Fé a great deal yourself, my Bishop." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I shall be here this summer, and I hope to keep you with me. This -year I want you to see my lotus flowers. Tranquilino will let the water -into my lake this afternoon." The lake was a little pond in the middle -of the garden, into which Tranquilino, clever with water, like all -Mexicans, had piped a stream from the Santa Fé creek flowing near at -hand. "Last summer, while you were away," the Bishop continued, "we had -more than a hundred lotus blossoms floating on that little lake. And all -from five bulbs that I put into my valise in Rome." -</p> -<p> -"When do they blossom?" -</p> -<p> -"They begin in June, but they are at their best in July." -</p> -<p> -"Then you must hurry them up a little. For with my Bishop's permission, -I shall be gone in July." -</p> -<p> -"So soon? And why?" -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant moved uneasily under his blankets. "To hunt for lost -Catholics, Jean! Utterly lost Catholics, down in your new territory, -towards Tucson. There are hundreds of poor families down there who have -never seen a priest. I want to go from house to house this time, to -every little settlement. They are full of devotion and faith, and it has -nothing to feed upon but the most mistaken superstitions. They remember -their prayers all wrong. They cannot read, and since there is no one to -instruct them, how can they get right? They are like seeds, full of -germination but with no moisture. A mere contact is enough to make them -a living part of the Church. The more I work with the Mexicans, the more -I believe it was people like them our Saviour bore in mind when He said, -<i>Unless ye become as little children</i>. He was thinking of people who -are not clever in the things of this world, whose minds are not upon gain -and worldly advancement. These poor Christians are not thrifty like our -country people at home; they have no veneration for property, no sense -of material values. I stop a few hours in a village, I administer the -sacraments and hear confessions, I leave in every house some little -token, a rosary or a religious picture, and I go away feeling that I -have conferred immeasurable happiness, and have released faithful souls -that were shut away from God by neglect. -</p> -<p> -"Down near Tucson a Pima Indian convert once asked me to go off into the -desert with him, as he had something to show me. He took me into a place -so wild that a man less accustomed to these things might have mistrusted -and feared for his life. We descended into a terrifying canyon of black -rock, and there in the depths of a cave, he showed me a golden chalice, -vestments and cruets, all the paraphernalia for celebrating Mass. His -ancestors had hidden these sacred objects there when the mission was -sacked by Apaches, he did not know how many generations ago. The secret -had been handed down in his family, and I was the first priest who had -ever come to restore to God his own. To me, that is the situation in a -parable. The Faith, in that wild frontier, is like a buried treasure; -they guard it, but they do not know how to use it to their soul's -salvation. A word, a prayer, a service, is all that is needed to set -free those souls in bondage. I confess I am covetous of that mission. I -desire to be the man who restores these lost children to God. It will be -the greatest happiness of my life." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop did not reply at once to this appeal. At last he said -gravely, "You must realize that I have need of you here, Father Joseph. -My duties are too many for one man." -</p> -<p> -"But you do not need me so much as they do!" Father Joseph threw off his -coverings and sat up in his cassock, putting his feet to the ground. -"Any one of our good French priests from Montferrand can serve you here. -It is work that can be done by intelligence. But down there it is work -for the heart, for a particular sympathy, and none of our new priests -understand those poor natures as I do. I have almost become a Mexican! I -have learned to like <i>chili colorado</i> and mutton fat. Their foolish -ways no longer offend me, their very faults are dear to me. I am <i>their -man</i>!" -</p> -<p> -"Ah, no doubt, no doubt! But I must insist upon your lying down for the -present." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant, flushed and excited, dropped back upon his pillows, and -the Bishop took a short turn through the garden,—to the row of -tamarisk trees and back. He walked slowly, with even, unhesitating pace, -with that slender, unrigid erectness, and the fine carriage of head, -which always made him seem master of the situation. No one would have -guessed that a sharp struggle was going on within him. Father Joseph's -impassioned request had spoiled a cherished plan, and brought Father -Latour a bitter personal disappointment. There was but one thing to -do,—and before he reached the tamarisks he had done it. He broke -off a spray of the dry lilac-coloured flowers to punctuate and seal, as -it were, his renunciation. He returned with the same easy, deliberate -tread, and stood smiling beside the army cot. -</p> -<p> -"Your feeling must be your guide in this matter, Joseph. I shall put no -obstacles in your way. A certain care for your health I must insist -upon, but when you are quite well, you must follow the duty that calls -loudest." -</p> -<p> -They were both silent for a few moments. Father Joseph closed his eyes -against the sunlight, and Father Latour stood lost in thought, drawing -the plume of tamarisk blossom absently through his delicate, rather -nervous fingers. His hands had a curious authority, but not the calmness -so often seen in the hands of priests; they seemed always to be -investigating and making firm decisions. -</p> -<p> -The two friends were roused from their reflections by a frantic beating -of wings. A bright flock of pigeons swept over their heads to the far -end of the garden, where a woman was just emerging from the gate that -led into the school grounds; Magdalena, who came every day to feed the -doves and to gather flowers. The Sisters had given her charge of the -altar decoration of the school chapel for this month, and she came for -the Bishop's apple blossoms and daffodils. She advanced in a whirlwind -of gleaming wings, and Tranquilino dropped his spade and stood watching -her. At one moment the whole flock of doves caught the light in such a -way that they all became invisible at once, dissolved in light and -disappeared as salt dissolves in water. The next moment they flashed -around, black and silver against the sun. They settled upon Magdalena's -arms and shoulders, ate from her hand. When she put a crust of bread -between her lips, two doves hung in the air before her face, stirring -their wings and pecking at the morsel. A handsome woman she had grown to -be, with her comely figure and the deep claret colour under the golden -brown of her cheeks. -</p> -<p> -"Who would think, to look at her now, that we took her from a place -where every vileness of cruelty and lust was practised!" murmured Father -Vaillant. "Not since the days of early Christianity has the Church been -able to do what it can here." -</p> -<p> -"She is but twenty-seven or -eight years old. I wonder whether she ought -not to marry again," said the Bishop thoughtfully. "Though she seems so -contented, I have sometimes surprised a tragic shadow in her eyes. Do -you remember the terrible look in her eyes when we first saw her?" -</p> -<p> -"Can I ever forget it! But her very body has changed. She was then a -shapeless, cringing creature. I thought her half-witted. No, no! She has -had enough of the storms of this world. Here she is safe and happy." -Father Vaillant sat up and called to her. "Magdalena, Magdalena, my -child, come here and talk to us for a little. Two men grow lonely when -they see nobody but each other." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>DECEMBER NIGHT</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER VAILLANT had been absent in Arizona -since midsummer, and it was now December. Bishop Latour had been going -through one of those periods of coldness and doubt which, from his -boyhood, had occasionally settled down upon his spirit and made him feel -an alien, wherever he was. He attended to his correspondence, went on -his rounds among the parish priests, held services at missions that were -without pastors, superintended the building of the addition to the -Sisters' school: but his heart was not in these things. -</p> -<p> -One night about three weeks before Christmas he was lying in his bed, -unable to sleep, with the sense of failure clutching at his heart. His -prayers were empty words and brought him no refreshment. His soul had -become a barren field. He had nothing within himself to give his priests -or his people. His work seemed superficial, a house built upon the -sands. His great diocese was still a heathen country. The Indians -travelled their old road of fear and darkness, battling with evil omens -and ancient shadows. The Mexicans were children who played with their -religion. -</p> -<p> -As the night wore on, the bed on which the Bishop lay became a bed of -thorns; he could bear it no longer. Getting up in the dark, he looked -out of the window and was surprised to find that it was snowing, that -the ground was already lightly covered. The full moon, hidden by veils -of cloud, threw a pale phosphorescent luminousness over the heavens, and -the towers of the church stood up black against this silvery fleece. -Father Latour felt a longing to go into the church to pray; but instead -he lay down again under his blankets. Then, realizing that it was the -cold of the church he shrank from, and despising himself, he rose again, -dressed quickly, and went out into the court, throwing on over his -cassock that faithful old cloak that was the twin of Father Vaillant's. -</p> -<p> -They had bought the cloth for those coats in Paris, long ago, when they -were young men staying at the Seminary for Foreign Missions in the rue -du Bac, preparing for their first voyage to the New World. The cloth had -been made up into caped riding-cloaks by a German tailor in Ohio, and -lined with fox fur. Years afterward, when Father Latour was about to -start on his long journey in search of his Bishopric, that same tailor -had made the cloaks over and relined them with squirrel skins, as more -appropriate for a mild climate. These memories and many others went -through the Bishop's mind as he wrapped the trusty garment about him and -crossed the court to the sacristy, with the big iron key in his hand. -</p> -<p> -The court was white with snow, and the shadows of walls and buildings -stood out sharply in the faint light from the moon muffled in vapour. In -the deep doorway of the sacristy he saw a crouching figure—a woman, -he made out, and she was weeping bitterly. He raised her up and took her -inside. As soon as he had lit a candle, he recognized her, and could -have guessed her errand. -</p> -<p> -It was an old Mexican woman, called Sada, who was slave in an American -family. They were Protestants, very hostile to the Roman Church, and -they did not allow her to go to Mass or to receive the visits of a -priest. She was carefully watched at home,—but in winter, when the -heated rooms of the house were desirable to the family, she was put to -sleep in a woodshed. To-night, unable to sleep for the cold, she had -gathered courage for this heroic action, had slipped out through the -stable door and come running up an alley-way to the House of God to -pray. Finding the front doors of the church fastened, she had made her -way into the Bishop's garden and come round to the sacristy, only to -find that, too, shut against her. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop stood holding the candle and watching her face while she -spoke her few words; a dark brown peon face, worn thin and sharp by life -and sorrow. It seemed to him that he had never seen pure goodness shine -out of a human countenance as it did from hers. He saw that she had no -stockings under her shoes,—the cast-off rawhides of her -master,—and beneath her frayed black shawl was only a thin calico -dress, covered with patches. Her teeth struck together as she stood -trying to control her shivering. With one movement of his free hand the -Bishop took the furred cloak from his shoulders and put it about her. -This frightened her. She cowered under it, murmuring, "Ah, no, no, -Padre!" -</p> -<p> -"You must obey your Padre, my daughter. Draw that cloak about you, and -we will go into the church to pray." -</p> -<p> -The church was utterly black except for the red spark of the sanctuary -lamp before the high altar. Taking her hand, and holding the candle -before him, he led her across the choir to the Lady Chapel. There he -began to light the tapers before the Virgin. Old Sada fell on her knees -and kissed the floor. She kissed the feet of the Holy Mother, the -pedestal on which they stood, crying all the while. But from the working -of her face, from the beautiful tremors which passed over it, he knew -they were tears of ecstasy. -</p> -<p> -"Nineteen years, Father; nineteen years since I have seen the holy -things of the altar!" -</p> -<p> -"All that is passed, Sada. You have remembered the holy things in your -heart. We will pray together." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop knelt beside her, and they began, <i>O Holy Mary, Queen of -Virgins</i>.... -</p> -<p> -More than once Father Vaillant had spoken to the Bishop of this aged -captive. There had been much whispering among the devout women of the -parish about her pitiful case. The Smiths, with whom she lived, were -Georgia people, who had at one time lived in El Paso del Norte, and they -had taken her back to their native State with them. Not long ago some -disgrace had come upon this family in Georgia, they had been forced to -sell all their negro slaves and flee the State. The Mexican woman they -could not sell because they had no legal title to her, her position was -irregular. Now that they were back in a Mexican country, the Smiths were -afraid their charwoman might escape from them and find asylum among her -own people, so they kept strict watch upon her. They did not allow her -to go outside their own <i>patio</i>, not even to accompany her mistress to -market. -</p> -<p> -Two women of the Altar Guild had been so bold as to go into the -<i>patio</i> to talk with Sada when she was washing clothes, but they -had been rudely driven away by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Smith had -come running out into the court, half dressed, and told them that if -they had business at her <i>casa</i> they were to come in by the front -door, and not sneak in through the stable to frighten a poor silly -creature. When they said they had come to ask Sada to go to Mass with -them, she told them she had got the poor creature out of the clutches of -the priests once, and would see to it that she did not fall into them -again. -</p> -<p> -Even after that rebuff a very pious neighbour woman had tried to say a -word to Sada through the alley door of the stable, where she was -unloading wood off the burro. But the old servant had put her finger to -her lips and motioned the visitor away, glancing back over her shoulder -the while with such an expression of terror that the intruder hastened -off, surmising that Sada would be harshly used if she were caught -speaking to anyone. The good woman went immediately to Father Vaillant -with this story, and he had consulted the Bishop, declaring that -something ought to be done to secure the consolations of religion for -the bond-woman. But the Bishop replied that the time was not yet; for -the present it was inexpedient to antagonize these people. The Smiths -were the leaders of a small group of low-caste Protestants who took -every occasion to make trouble for the Catholics. They hung about the -door of the church on festival days with mockery and loud laughter, -spoke insolently to the nuns in the street, stood jeering and -blaspheming when the procession went by on Corpus Christi Sunday. There -were five sons in the Smith family, fellows of low habits and evil -tongues. Even the two younger boys, still children, showed a vicious -disposition. Tranquilino had repeatedly driven these two boys out of the -Bishop's garden, where they came with their lewd companions to rob the -young pear trees or to speak filth against the priests. -</p> -<p> -When they rose from their knees, Father Latour told Sada he was glad to -know that she remembered her prayers so well. -</p> -<p> -"Ah, Padre, every night I say my Rosary to my Holy Mother, no matter -where I sleep!" declared the old creature passionately, looking up into -his face and pressing her knotted hands against her breast. -</p> -<p> -When he asked if she had her beads with her, she was confused. She kept -them tied with a cord around her waist, under her clothes, as the only -place she could hide them safely. -</p> -<p> -He spoke soothingly to her. "Remember this, Sada; in the year to come, -and during the Novena before Christmas, I will not forget to pray for -you whenever I offer the Blessed Sacrament of the Mass. Be at rest in -your heart, for I will remember you in my silent supplications before -the altar as I do my own sisters and my nieces." -</p> -<p> -Never, as he afterward told Father Vaillant, had it been permitted him -to behold such deep experience of the holy joy of religion as on that -pale December night. He was able to feel, kneeling beside her, the -preciousness of the things of the altar to her who was without -possessions; the tapers, the image of the Virgin, the figures of the -saints, the Cross that took away indignity from suffering and made pain -and poverty a means of fellowship with Christ. Kneeling beside the much -enduring bondwoman, he experienced those holy mysteries as he had done -in his young manhood. He seemed able to feel all it meant to her to know -that there was a Kind Woman in Heaven, though there were such cruel ones -on earth. Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's -hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness. Only -a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer. -</p> -<p> -Not often, indeed, had Jean Marie Latour come so near to the Fountain of -all Pity as in the Lady Chapel that night; the pity that no man born of -woman could ever utterly cut himself off from; that was for the murderer -on the scaffold, as it was for the dying soldier or the martyr on the -rack. The beautiful concept of Mary pierced the priest's heart like a -sword. -</p> -<p> -"<i>O Sacred Heart of Mary</i>!" she murmured by his side, and he felt how -that name was food and raiment, friend and mother to her. He received -the miracle in her heart into his own, saw through her eyes, knew that -his poverty was as bleak as hers. When the Kingdom of Heaven had first -come into the world, into a cruel world of torture and slaves and -masters, He who brought it had said, "<i>And whosoever is least among you, -the same shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven</i>." This church was -Sada's house, and he was a servant in it. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop heard the old woman's confession. He blessed her and put both -hands upon her head. When he took her down the nave to let her out of -the church, Sada made to lift his cloak from her shoulders. He -restrained her, telling her she must keep it for her own, and sleep in -it at night. But she slipped out of it hurriedly; such a thought seemed -to terrify her. "No, no, Father. If they were to find it on me!" More -than that, she did not accuse her oppressors. But as she put it off, she -stroked the old garment and patted it as if it were a living thing that -had been kind to her. -</p> -<p> -Happily Father Latour bethought him of a little silver medal, with a -figure of the Virgin, he had in his pocket. He gave it to her, telling -her that it had been blessed by the Holy Father himself. Now she would -have a treasure to hide and guard, to adore while her watchers slept. -Ah, he thought, for one who cannot read—or think—the Image, the -physical form of Love! -</p> -<p> -He fitted the great key into its lock, the door swung slowly back on its -wooden hinges. The peace without seemed all one with the peace in his -own soul. The snow had stopped, the gauzy clouds that had ribbed the -arch of heaven were now all sunk into one soft white fog bank over the -Sangre de Cristo mountains. The full moon shone high in the blue vault, -majestic, lonely, benign. The Bishop stood in the doorway of his church, -lost in thought, looking at the line of black footprints his departing -visitor had left in the wet scurf of snow. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>SPRING IN THE NAVAJO COUNTRY</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER VAILLANT was away in Arizona all -winter. When the first hint of spring was in the air, the Bishop and -Jacinto set out on a long ride across New Mexico, to the Painted Desert -and the Hopi villages. After they left Oraibi, the Bishop rode several -days to the south, to visit a Navajo friend who had lately lost his only -son, and who had paid the Bishop the compliment of sending word of the -boy's death to him at Santa Fé. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had known Eusabio a long while, had met him soon after he -first came to his new diocese. The Navajo was in Santa Fé at that time, -assisting the military officers to quiet an outbreak of the never-ending -quarrel between his people and the Hopis. Ever since then the Bishop and -the Indian chief had entertained an increasing regard for each other. -Eusabio brought his son all the way to Santa Fé to have the Bishop -baptize him,—that one beloved son who had died during this last -winter. -</p> -<p> -Though he was ten years younger than Father Latour, Eusabio was one of -the most influential men among the Navajo people, and one of the richest -in sheep and horses. In Santa Fé and Albuquerque he was respected for -his intelligence and authority, and admired for his fine presence. He -was extremely tall, even for a Navajo, with a face like a Roman -general's of Republican times. He always dressed very elegantly in -velvet and buckskin rich with bead and quill embroidery, belted with -silver, and wore a blanket of the finest wool and design. His arms, -under the loose sleeves of his shirt, were covered with silver -bracelets, and on his breast hung very old necklaces of wampum and -turquoise and coral—Mediterranean coral, that had been left in the -Navajo country by Coronado's captains when they passed through it on -their way to discover the Hopi villages and the Grand Canyon. -</p> -<p> -Eusabio lived, with his relatives and dependents, in a group of hogans -on the Colorado Chiquito; to the west and south and north his kinsmen -herded his great flocks. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour and Jacinto arrived at the cluster of booth-like cabins -during a high sand-storm, which circled about them and their mules like -snow in a blizzard and all but obliterated the landscape. The Navajo -came out of his house and took possession of Angelica by her bridle-bit. -At first he did not open his lips, merely stood holding Father Latour's -very fine white hand in his very fine dark one, and looked into his face -with a message of sorrow and resignation in his deep-set, eagle eyes. A -wave of feeling passed over his bronze features as he said slowly: -</p> -<p> -"My friend has come." -</p> -<p> -That was all, but it was everything; welcome, confidence, appreciation. -</p> -<p> -For his lodging the Bishop was given a solitary hogan, a little apart -from the settlement. Eusabio quickly furnished it with his best skins -and blankets, and told his guest that he must tarry a few days there and -recover from his fatigue. His mules were tired, the Indian said, the -Padre himself looked weary, and the way to Santa Fé was long. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop thanked him and said he would stay three days; that he had -need for reflection. His mind had been taken up with practical matters -ever since he left home. This seemed a spot where a man might get his -thoughts together. The river, a considerable stream at this time of the -year, wound among mounds and dunes of loose sand which whirled through -the air all day in the boisterous spring winds. The sand banked up -against the hogan the Bishop occupied, and filtered through chinks in -the walls, which were made of saplings plastered with clay. -</p> -<p> -Beside the river was a grove of tall, naked cottonwoods—trees of -great antiquity and enormous size—so large that they seemed to -belong to a bygone age. They grew far apart, and their strange twisted -shapes must have come about from the ceaseless winds that bent them to -the east and scoured them with sand, and from the fact that they lived -with very little water,—the river was nearly dry here for most of -the year. The trees rose out of the ground at a slant, and forty or -fifty feet above the earth all these white, dry trunks changed their -direction, grew back over their base line. Some split into great forks -which arched down almost to the ground; some did not fork at all, but -the main trunk dipped downward in a strong curve, as if drawn by a -bowstring; and some terminated in a thick coruscation of growth, like a -crooked palm tree. They were all living trees, yet they seemed to be of -old, dead, dry wood, and had very scant foliage. High up in the forks, -or at the end of a preposterous length of twisted bough, would burst a -faint bouquet of delicate green leaves—out of all keeping with the -great lengths of seasoned white trunk and branches. The grove looked -like a winter wood of giant trees, with clusters of mistletoe growing -among the bare boughs. -</p> -<p> -Navajo hospitality is not intrusive. Eusabio made the Bishop understand -that he was glad to have him there, and let him alone. Father Latour -lived for three days in an almost perpetual sand-storm—cut off from -even this remote little Indian camp by moving walls and tapestries of -sand. He either sat in his house and listened to the wind, or walked -abroad under those aged, wind-distorted trees, muffled in an Indian -blanket, which he kept drawn up over his mouth and nose. Since his -arrival he had undertaken to decide whether he would be justified in -recalling Father Vaillant from Tucson. The Vicar's occasional letters, -brought by travellers, showed that he was highly content where he was, -restoring the old mission church of St. Xavier del Bac, which he -declared to be the most beautiful church on the continent, though it had -been neglected for more than two hundred years. -</p> -<p> -Since Father Vaillant went away the Bishop's burdens had grown heavier -and heavier. The new priests from Auvergne were all good men, faithful -and untiring in carrying out his wishes; but they were still strangers -to the country, timid about making decisions, and referred every -difficulty to their Bishop. Father Latour needed his Vicar, who had so -much tact with the natives, so much sympathy with all their -short-comings. When they were together, he was always curbing Father -Vaillant's hopeful rashness—but left alone, he greatly missed that -very quality. And he missed Father Vaillant's companionship—why -not admit it? -</p> -<p> -Although Jean Marie Latour and Joseph Vaillant were born in neighbouring -parishes in the Puy-de-Dôm, as children they had not known each other. -The Latours were an old family of scholars and professional men, while -the Vaillants were people of a much humbler station in the provincial -world. Besides, little Joseph had been away from home much of the time, -up on the farm in the Volvic mountains with his grandfather, where the -air was especially pure, and the country quiet salutary for a child of -nervous temperament. The two boys had not come together until they were -Seminarians at Montferrand, in Clermont. -</p> -<p> -When Jean Marie was in his second year at the Seminary, he was standing -on the recreation ground one day at the opening of the term, looking -with curiosity at the new students. In the group, he noticed one of -peculiarly unpromising appearance; a boy of nineteen who was undersized, -very pale, homely in feature, with a wart on his chin and tow-coloured -hair that made him look like a German. This boy seemed to feel his -glance, and came up at once, as if he had been called. He was apparently -quite unconscious of his homeliness, was not at all shy, but intensely -interested in his new surroundings. He asked Jean Latour his name, where -he came from, and his father's occupation. Then he said with great -simplicity: -</p> -<p> -"My father is a baker, the best in Riom. In fact, he's a remarkable -baker." -</p> -<p> -Young Latour was amused, but expressed polite appreciation of this -confidence. The queer lad went on to tell him about his brother and his -aunt, and his clever little sister, Philomène. He asked how long Latour -had been at the Seminary. -</p> -<p> -"Have you always intended to take orders? So have I, but I very nearly -went into the army instead." -</p> -<p> -The year previous, after the surrender of Algiers, there had been a -military review at Clermont, a great display of uniforms and military -bands, and stirring speeches about the glory of French arms. Young -Joseph Vaillant had lost his head in the excitement, and had signed up -for a volunteer without consulting his father. He gave Latour a vivid -account of his patriotic emotions, of his father's displeasure, and his -own subsequent remorse. His mother had wished him to become a priest. -She died when he was thirteen, and ever since then he had meant to carry -out her wish and to dedicate his life to the service of the Divine -Mother. But that one day, among the bands and the uniforms, he had -forgotten everything but his desire to serve France. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly young Vaillant broke off, saying that he must write a letter -before the hour was over, and tucking up his gown he ran away at full -speed. Latour stood looking after him, resolved that he would take this -new boy under his protection. There was something about the baker's son -that had given their meeting the colour of an adventure; he meant to -repeat it. In that first encounter, he chose the lively, ugly boy for -his friend. It was instantaneous. Latour himself was much cooler and -more critical in temper; hard to please, and often a little grey in -mood. -</p> -<p> -During their Seminary years he had easily surpassed his friend in -scholarship, but he always realized that Joseph excelled him in the -fervour of his faith. After they became missionaries, Joseph had learned -to speak English, and later, Spanish, more readily than he. To be sure, -he spoke both languages very incorrectly at first, but he had no vanity -about grammar or refinement of phrase. To communicate with peons, he was -quite willing to speak like a peon. -</p> -<p> -Though the Bishop had worked with Father Joseph for twenty-five years -now, he could not reconcile the contradictions of his nature. He simply -accepted them, and, when Joseph had been away for a long while, realized -that he loved them all. His Vicar was one of the most truly spiritual -men he had ever known, though he was so passionately attached to many of -the things of this world. Fond as he was of good eating and drinking, he -not only rigidly observed all the fasts of the Church, but he never -complained about the hardness and scantiness of the fare on his long -missionary journeys. Father Joseph's relish for good wine might have -been a fault in another man. But always frail in body, he seemed to need -some quick physical stimulant to support his sudden flights of purpose -and imagination. Time and again the Bishop had seen a good dinner, a -bottle of claret, transformed into spiritual energy under his very eyes. -From a little feast that would make other men heavy and desirous of -repose, Father Vaillant would rise up revived, and work for ten or -twelve hours with that ardour and thoroughness which accomplished such -lasting results. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop had often been embarrassed by his Vicar's persistence in -begging for the parish, for the Cathedral fund and the distant missions. -Yet for himself, Father Joseph was scarcely acquisitive to the point of -decency. He owned nothing in the world but his mule, Contento. Though he -received rich vestments from his sister in Riom, his daily apparel was -rough and shabby. The Bishop had a large and valuable library, at least, -and many comforts for his house. There were his beautiful skins and -blankets—presents from Eusabio and his other Indian friends. The -Mexican women, skilled in needlework and lace-making and hem-stitching, -presented him with fine linen for his person, his bed, and his table. He -had silver plate, given him by the Olivares and others of his rich -parishioners. But Father Vaillant was like the saints of the early -Church, literally without personal possessions. -</p> -<p> -In his youth, Joseph had wished to lead a life of seclusion and solitary -devotion; but the truth was, he could not be happy for long without -human intercourse. And he liked almost everyone. In Ohio, when they used -to travel together in stagecoaches, Father Latour had noticed that every -time a new passenger pushed his way into the already crowded stage, -Joseph would look pleased and interested, as if this were an agreeable -addition—whereas he himself felt annoyed, even if he concealed it. -The ugly conditions of life in Ohio had never troubled Joseph. The hideous -houses and churches, the ill-kept farms and gardens, the slovenly, -sordid aspect of the towns and country-side, which continually depressed -Father Latour, he seemed scarcely to perceive. One would have said he -had no feeling for comeliness or grace. Yet music was a passion with -him. In Sandusky it had been his delight to spend evening after evening -with his German choir-master, training the young people to sing Bach -oratorios. -</p> -<p> -Nothing one could say of Father Vaillant explained him. The man was much -greater than the sum of his qualities. He added a glow to whatever kind -of human society he was dropped down into. A Navajo hogan, some abjectly -poor little huddle of Mexican huts, or a company of Monsignori and -Cardinals at Rome—it was all the same. -</p> -<p> -The last time the Bishop was in Rome he had heard an amusing story from -Monsignor Mazzucchi, who had been secretary to Gregory XVI at the time -when Father Vaillant went from his Ohio mission for his first visit to -the Holy City. -</p> -<p> -Joseph had stayed in Rome for three months, living on about forty cents -a day and leaving nothing unseen. He several times asked Mazzucchi to -secure him a private audience with the Pope. The secretary liked the -missionary from Ohio; there was something abrupt and lively and naïf -about him, a kind of freshness he did not often find in the priests who -flocked to Rome. So he arranged an interview at which only the Holy -Father and Father Vaillant and Mazzucchi were present. -</p> -<p> -The missionary came in, attended by a chamberlain who carried two great -black valises full of objects to be blessed—instead of one, as was -customary. After his reception, Father Joseph began to pour out such a -vivid account of his missions and brother missionaries, that both the -Holy Father and the secretary forgot to take account of time, and the -audience lasted three times as long as such interviews were supposed to -last. Gregory XVI, that aristocratic and autocratic prelate, who stood -so consistently on the wrong side in European politics, and was the -enemy of Free Italy, had done more than any of his predecessors to -propagate the Faith in remote parts of the world. And here was a -missionary after his own heart. Father Vaillant asked for blessings for -himself, his fellow priests, his missions, his Bishop. He opened his big -valises like pedlars' packs, full of crosses, rosaries, prayer-books, -medals, breviaries, on which he begged more than the usual blessing. The -astonished chamberlain had come and gone several times, and Mazzucchi at -last reminded the Holy Father that he had other engagements. Father -Vaillant caught up his two valises himself, the chamberlain not being -there at the moment, and thus laden, was bowing himself backward out of -the presence, when the Pope rose from his chair and lifted his hand, not -in benediction but in salutation, and called out to the departing -missionary, as one man to another, "<i>Coraggio, Americano</i>!" -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Bishop Latour found his Navajo house favourable for reflection, for -recalling the past and planning the future. He wrote long letters to his -brother and to old friends in France. The hogan was isolated like a -ship's cabin on the ocean, with the murmuring of great winds about it. -There was no opening except the door, always open, and the air without -had the turbid yellow light of sand-storms. All day long the sand came -in through the cracks in the walls and formed little ridges on the earth -floor. It rattled like sleet upon the dead leaves of the tree-branch -roof. This house was so frail a shelter that one seemed to be sitting in -the heart of a world made of dusty earth and moving air. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b> -<br><br> -<b>EUSABIO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>N the third day of his visit with Eusabio, -the Bishop wrote a somewhat formal letter of recall to his Vicar, and -then went for his daily walk in the desert. He stayed out until sunset, -when the wind fell and the air cleared, to a crystal sharpness. As he -was returning, still a mile or more up the river, he heard the deep -sound of a cottonwood drum, beaten softly. He surmised that the sound -came from Eusabio's house, and that his friend was at home. -</p> -<p> -Retracing his steps to the settlement, Father Latour found Eusabio -seated beside his doorway, singing in the Navajo language and beating -softly on one end of his long drum. Before him two very little Indian -boys, about four and five years old, were dancing to the music, on the -hard beaten ground. Two women, Eusabio's wife and sister, looked on from -the deep twilight of the hut. -</p> -<p> -The little boys did not notice the stranger's approach. They were -entirely engrossed in their occupation, their faces serious, their -chocolate-coloured eyes half closed. The Bishop stood watching the -flowing, supple movements of their arms and shoulders, the sure rhythm -of their tiny moccasined feet, no larger than cottonwood leaves, as -without a word of instruction they followed the irregular and -strangely-accented music. Eusabio himself wore an expression of -religious gravity. He sat with the drum between his knees, his broad -shoulders bent forward; a crimson <i>banda</i> covered his forehead to hold -his black hair. The silver on his dark wrists glittered as he stroked -the drum-head with a stick or merely tapped it with his fingers. When he -finished the song he was singing, he rose and introduced the little -boys, his nephews, by their Indian names, Eagle Feather and Medicine -Mountain, after which he nodded to them in dismissal. They vanished into -the house. Eusabio handed the drum to his wife and walked away with his -guest. -</p> -<p> -"Eusabio," said the Bishop, "I want to send a letter to Father Vaillant, -at Tucson. I will send Jacinto with it, provided you can spare me one of -your people to accompany me back to Santa Fé." -</p> -<p> -"I myself will ride with you to the Villa," said Eusabio. The Navajos -still called the capital by its old name. -</p> -<p> -Accordingly, on the following morning, Jacinto was dispatched southward, -and Father Latour and Eusabio, with their pack-mule, rode to the east. -</p> -<p> -The ride back to Santa Fé was something under four hundred miles. The -weather alternated between blinding sand-storms and brilliant sunlight. -The sky was as full of motion and change as the desert beneath it was -monotonous and still,—and there was so much sky, more than at sea, -more than anywhere else in the world. The plain was there, under one's -feet, but what one saw when one looked about was that brilliant blue -world of stinging air and moving cloud. Even the mountains were mere -ant-hills under it. Elsewhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here -the earth was the floor of the sky. The landscape one longed for when -one was far away, the thing all about one, the world one actually lived -in, was the sky, the sky! -</p> -<p> -Travelling with Eusabio was like travelling with the landscape made -human. He accepted chance and weather as the country did, with a sort of -grave enjoyment. He talked little, ate little, slept anywhere, preserved -a countenance open and warm, and like Jacinto he had unfailing good -manners. The Bishop was rather surprised that he stopped so often by the -way to gather flowers. One morning he came back with the mules, holding -a bunch of crimson flowers—long, tube-shaped bells, that hung lightly -from one side of a naked stem and trembled in the wind. -</p> -<p> -"The Indians call rainbow flower," he said, holding them up and making -the red tubes quiver. "It is early for these." -</p> -<p> -When they left the rock or tree or sand dune that had sheltered them for -the night, the Navajo was careful to obliterate every trace of their -temporary occupation. He buried the embers of the fire and the remnants -of food, unpiled any stones he had piled together, filled up the holes -he had scooped in the sand. Since this was exactly Jacinto's procedure, -Father Latour judged that, just as it was the white man's way to assert -himself in any landscape, to change it, make it over a little (at least -to leave some mark or memorial of his sojourn), it was the Indian's way -to pass through a country without disturbing anything; to pass and leave -no trace, like fish through the water, or birds through the air. -</p> -<p> -It was the Indian manner to vanish into the landscape, not to stand out -against it. The Hopi villages that were set upon rock mesas, were made -to look like the rock on which they sat, were imperceptible at a -distance. The Navajo hogans, among the sand and willows, were made of -sand and willows. None of the pueblos would at that time admit glass -windows into their dwellings. The reflection of the sun on the glazing was -to them ugly and unnatural—even dangerous. Moreover, these Indians -disliked novelty and change. They came and went by the old paths worn -into the rock by the feet of their fathers, used the old natural -stairway of stone to climb to their mesa towns, carried water from the -old springs, even after white men had dug wells. -</p> -<p> -In the working of silver or drilling of turquoise the Indians had -exhaustless patience; upon their blankets and belts and ceremonial robes -they lavished their skill and pains. But their conception of decoration -did not extend to the landscape. They seemed to have none of the -European's desire to "master" nature, to arrange and re-create. They -spent their ingenuity in the other direction; in accommodating -themselves to the scene in which they found themselves. This was not so -much from indolence, the Bishop thought, as from an inherited caution -and respect. It was as if the great country were asleep, and they wished -to carry on their lives without awakening it; or as if the spirits of -earth and air and water were things not to antagonize and arouse. When -they hunted, it was with the same discretion; an Indian hunt was never -a slaughter. They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they -irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The -land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not -attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it. -</p> -<p> -As Father Latour and Eusabio approached Albuquerque, they occasionally -fell in with company; Indians going to and fro on the long winding -trails across the plain, or up into the Sandia mountains. They had all -of them the same quiet way of moving, whether their pace was swift or -slow, and the same unobtrusive demeanour: an Indian wrapped in his -bright blanket, seated upon his mule or walking beside it, moving -through the pale new-budding sage-brush, winding among the sand waves, -as if it were his business to pass unseen and unheard through a country -awakening with spring. -</p> -<p> -North of Laguna two Zuñi runners sped by them, going somewhere east on -"Indian business." They saluted Eusabio by gestures with the open palm, -but did not stop. They coursed over the sand with the fleetness of young -antelope, their bodies disappearing and reappearing among the sand -dunes, like the shadows that eagles cast in their strong, unhurried -flight. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap08"></a>BOOK EIGHT -<br><br> -<i>GOLD UNDER PIKE'S PEAK</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>CATHEDRAL</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER VAILLANT had been in Santa Fé -nearly three weeks, and as yet nothing had been revealed to him that -warranted his Bishop in calling him back from Tucson. One morning -Fructosa came into the garden to tell him that lunch would be earlier -than usual, as the Bishop was going to ride somewhere that afternoon. -Half an hour later he joined his superior in the dining-room. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop seldom lunched alone. That was the hour when he could most -conveniently entertain a priest from one of the distant parishes, an -army officer, an American trader, a visitor from Old Mexico or -California. He had no parlour—his dining-room served that purpose. It -was long and cool, with windows only at the west end, opening into the -garden. The green jalousies let in a tempered light. Sunbeams played on -the white, rounded walls and twinkled on the glass and silver of the -sideboard. When Madame Olivares left Santa Fé to return to New Orleans -and sold her effects at auction, Father Latour bought her sideboard, and -the dining-table around which friends had so often gathered. Doña -Isabella gave him her silver coffee service and candelabra for -remembrance. They were the only ornaments of the severe and shadowy -room. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop was already at his place when Father Joseph entered. -"Fructosa has told you why we are lunching early? We will take a ride -this afternoon. I have something to show you." -</p> -<p> -"Very good. Perhaps you have noticed that I am a little restless. I -don't know when I have been two weeks out of the saddle before. When I -go to visit Contento in his stall, he looks at me reprovingly. He will -grow too fat." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled, with a shade of sarcasm on his upper lip. He knew his -Joseph. "Ah, well," he said carelessly, "a little rest will not hurt -him, after coming six hundred miles from Tucson. You can take him out -this afternoon, and I will ride Angelica." -</p> -<p> -The two priests left Santa Fé a little after midday, riding west. The -Bishop did not disclose his objective, and the Vicar asked no questions. -Soon they left the wagon road and took a trail running straight south, -through an empty greasewood country sloping gradually in the direction -of the naked, blue Sandia mountains. -</p> -<p> -At about four o'clock they came out upon a ridge high over the Rio -Grande valley. The trail dropped down a long decline at this point and -wound about the foot of the Sandias into Albuquerque, some sixty miles -away. This ridge was covered with cone-shaped, rocky hills, thinly clad -with piñons, and the rock was a curious shade of green, something -between sea-green and olive. The thin, pebbly earth, which was merely -the rock pulverized by weather, had the same green tint. Father Latour -rode to an isolated hill that beetled over the western edge of the -ridge, just where the trail descended. This hill stood up high and quite -alone, boldly facing the declining sun and the blue Sandias. As they -drew close to it, Father Vaillant noticed that on the western face the -earth had been scooped away, exposing a rugged wall of rock—not green -like the surrounding hills, but yellow, a strong golden ochre, very much -like the gold of the sunlight that was now beating upon it. Picks and -crowbars lay about, and fragments of stone, freshly broken off. -</p> -<p> -"It is curious, is it not, to find one yellow hill among all these green -ones?" remarked the Bishop, stooping to pick up a piece of the stone. "I -have ridden over these hills in every direction, but this is the only -one of its kind." He stood regarding the chip of yellow rock that lay in -his palm. As he had a very special way of handling objects that were -sacred, he extended that manner to things which he considered beautiful. -After a moment of silence he looked up at the rugged wall, gleaming gold -above them. "That hill, <i>Blanchet</i>, is my Cathedral." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph looked at his Bishop, then at the cliff, blinking. -"<i>Vraiment</i>? Is the stone hard enough? A good colour, certainly; -something like the colonnade of St. Peter's." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smoothed the piece of rock with his thumb. "It is more like -something nearer home—I mean, nearer Clermont. When I look up at this -rock I can almost feel the Rhone behind me." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, you mean the old Palace of the Popes, at Avignon! Yes, you are -right, it is very like. At this hour, it is like this." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop sat down on a boulder, still looking up at the cliff. "It is -the stone I have always wanted, and I found it quite by chance. I was -coming back from Isleta. I had been to see old Padre Jesus when he was -dying. I had never come by this trail, but when I reached Santo Domingo -I found the road so washed by a heavy rain that I turned out and decided -to try this way home. I rode up here from the west in the late -afternoon; this hill confronted me as it confronts us now, and I knew -instantly that it was my Cathedral." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, such things are never accidents, Jean. But it will be a long while -before you can think of building." -</p> -<p> -"Not so very long, I hope. I should like to complete it before I -die—if God so wills. I wish to leave nothing to chance, or to the -mercy of American builders. I had rather keep the old adobe church we -have now than help to build one of those horrible structures they are -putting up in the Ohio cities. I want a plain church, but I want a good -one. I shall certainly never lift my hand to build a clumsy affair of -red brick, like an English coach-house. Our own Midi Romanesque is the -right style for this country." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sniffed and wiped his glasses. "If you once begin -thinking about architects and styles, Jean! And if you don't get -American builders, whom will you get, pray?" -</p> -<p> -"I have an old friend in Toulouse who is a very fine architect. I talked -this matter over with him when I was last at home. He cannot come -himself; he is afraid of the long sea voyage, and not used to horseback -travel. But he has a young son, still at his studies, who is eager to -undertake the work. Indeed, his father writes me that it has become the -young man's dearest ambition to build the first Romanesque church in the -New World. He will have studied the right models; he thinks our old -churches of the Midi the most beautiful in France. When we are ready, he -will come and bring with him a couple of good French stone-cutters. They -will certainly be no more expensive than workmen from St. Louis. Now -that I have found exactly the stone I want, my Cathedral seems to me -already begun. This hill is only about fifteen miles from Santa Fé; -there is an up-grade, but it is gradual. Hauling the stone will be -easier than I could have hoped for." -</p> -<p> -"You plan far ahead," Father Vaillant looked at his friend wonderingly. -"Well, that is what a Bishop should be able to do. As for me, I see only -what is under my nose. But I had no idea you were going in for fine -building, when everything about us is so poor—and we ourselves are so -poor." -</p> -<p> -"But the Cathedral is not for us, Father Joseph. We build for the -future—better not lay a stone unless we can do that. It would be a -shame to any man coming from a Seminary that is one of the architectural -treasures of France, to make another ugly church on this continent where -there are so many already." -</p> -<p> -"You are probably right. I had never thought of it before. It never -occurred to me that we could have anything but an Ohio church here. Your -ancestors helped to build Clermont Cathedral, I remember; two building -Bishops de la Tour back in the thirteenth century. Time brings things to -pass, certainly. I had no idea you were taking all this so much to -heart." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour laughed. "Is a cathedral a thing to be taken lightly, -after all?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, certainly not!" Father Vaillant moved his shoulders uneasily. -He did not himself know why he hung back in this. -</p> -<p> -The base of the hill before which they stood was already in shadow, -subdued to the tone of rich yellow clay, but the top was still melted -gold—a colour that throbbed in the last rays of the sun. The Bishop -turned away at last with a sigh of deep content. "Yes," he said slowly, -"that rock will do very well. And now we must be starting home. Every -time I come here, I like this stone better. I could hardly have hoped -that God would gratify my personal taste, my vanity, if you will, in -this way. I tell you, <i>Blanchet</i>, I would rather have found that hill -of yellow rock than have come into a fortune to spend in charity. The -Cathedral is near my heart, for many reasons. I hope you do not think me -very worldly." -</p> -<p> -As they rode home through the sage-brush silvered by moonlight, Father -Vaillant was still wondering why he had been called home from saving -souls in Arizona, and wondering why a poor missionary Bishop should care -so much about a building. He himself was eager to have the Cathedral -begun; but whether it was Midi Romanesque or Ohio German in style, -seemed to him of little consequence. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>A LETTER FROM LEAVENWORTH</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE day after the Bishop and his Vicar rode -to the yellow rock the weekly post arrived at Santa Fé. It brought the -Bishop many letters, and he was shut in his study all morning. At lunch -he told Father Vaillant that he would require his company that evening -to consider with him a letter of great importance from the Bishop of -Leavenworth. -</p> -<p> -This letter of many pages was concerned with events that were happening -in Colorado, in a part of the Rocky Mountains very little known. Though -it was only a few hundred miles north of Santa Fé, communication with -that region was so infrequent that news travelled to Santa Fé from -Europe more quickly than from Pike's Peak. Under the shadow of that peak -rich gold deposits had been discovered within the last year, but Father -Vaillant had first heard of this through a letter from France. Word of -it had reached the Atlantic coast, crossed to Europe, and come from -there back to the South-west, more quickly than it could filter down -through the few hundred miles of unexplored mountains and gorges between -Cripple Creek and Santa Fé. While Father Vaillant was at Tucson he had -received a letter from his brother Marius, in Auvergne, and was vexed -that so much of it was taken up with inquiries about the gold rush to -Colorado, of which he had never heard, while Marius gave him but little -news of the war in Italy, which seemed relatively near and much more -important. -</p> -<p> -That congested heaping up of the Rocky Mountain chain about Pike's Peak -was a blank space on the continent at this time. Even the fur trappers, -coming down from Wyoming to Taos with their pelts, avoided that humped -granite backbone. Only a few years before, Frémont had tried to -penetrate the Colorado Rockies, and his party had come half-starved into -Taos at last, having eaten most of their horses. But within twelve -months everything had changed. Wandering prospectors had found large -deposits of gold near Cripple Creek, and the mountains that were -solitary a year ago were now full of people. Wagon trains were streaming -westward across the prairies from the Missouri River. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop of Leavenworth wrote Father Latour that he himself had just -returned from a visit to Cripple Creek. He had found the slopes under -Pike's Peak dotted with camps, the gorges black with placer miners; -thousands of people were living in tents and shacks, Cherry Creek was -full of saloons and gambling-rooms; and among all the wanderers and -wastrels were many honest men, hundreds of good Catholics, and not one -priest. The young men were adrift in a lawless society without spiritual -guidance. The old men died from exposure and mountain pneumonia, with no -one to give them the last rites of the Church. -</p> -<p> -This new and populous community must, for the present, the Kansas Bishop -wrote, be accounted under Father Latour's jurisdiction. His great -diocese, already enlarged by thousands of square miles to the south and -west, must now, on the north, take in the still undefined but suddenly -important region of the Colorado Rockies. The Bishop of Leavenworth -begged him to send a priest there as soon as possible,—an able one, -by all means, not only devoted, but resourceful and intelligent, one who -would be at his ease with all sorts of men. He must take his bedding and -camp outfit, medicines and provisions, and clothing for the severe -winter. At Camp Denver there was nothing to be bought but tobacco and -whisky. There were no women there, and no cook stoves. The miners lived -on half-baked dough and alcohol. They did not even keep the mountain -water pure, and so died of fever. All the living conditions were -abominable. -</p> -<p> -In the evening, after dinner, Father Latour read this letter aloud to -Father Vaillant in his study. When he had finished, he put down the -closely written pages. -</p> -<p> -"You have been complaining of inactivity, Father Joseph; here is your -opportunity." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph, who had been growing more and more restless during the -reading of the letter, said merely: "So now I must begin speaking -English again! I can start to-morrow if you wish it." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop shook his head. "Not so fast. There will be no hospitable -Mexicans to receive you at the end of this journey. You must take your -living with you. We will have a wagon built for you, and choose your -outfit carefully. Tranquilino's brother, Sabino, will be your driver. -This, I fear, will be the hardest mission you have ever undertaken." -</p> -<p> -The two priests talked until a late hour. There was Arizona to be -considered; somebody must be found to continue Father Vaillant's work -there. Of all the countries he knew, that desert and its yellow people -were the dearest to him. But it was the discipline of his life to break -ties; to say farewell and move on into the unknown. -</p> -<p> -Before he went to bed that night Father Joseph greased his boots and -trimmed the calloused spots on his feet with an old razor. At the -Mexican village of Chimayo, over toward the Truchas mountains, the good -people were especially devoted to a little equestrian image of Santiago -in their church, and they made him a new pair of boots every few months, -insisting that he went abroad at night and wore out his shoes, even on -horseback. When Father Joseph stayed there, he used to tell them he -wished that, in addition to the consecration of the hands, God had -provided some special blessing for the missionary's feet. -</p> -<p> -He recalled affectionately an incident which concerned this Santiago of -Chimayo. Some years ago Father Joseph was asked to go to the -<i>calabozo</i> at Santa Fé to see a murderer from Chimayo. The -prisoner proved to be a boy of twenty, very gentle in face and manner. -His name was Ramon Armajillo. He had been passionately fond of -cock-fighting, and it was his undoing. He had bred a rooster that never -lost a battle, but had slit the necks of cocks in all the little towns -about. At last Ramon brought the bird to Santa Fé to match him with a -famous cock there, and half a dozen Chimayo boys came along and put up -everything they had on Ramon's rooster. The betting was heavy on both -sides, and the gate receipts also were to go to the winner. After a -somewhat doubtful beginning, Ramon's cock neatly ripped the jugular vein -of his opponent; but the owner of the defeated bird, before anyone could -stop him, reached into the ring and wrung the victor's neck. Before he -had dropped the limp bunch of feathers from his hand, Ramon's knife was -in his heart. It all happened in a flash—some of the witnesses -even insisted that the death of the man and the death of the cock were -simultaneous. All agreed that there was not time for a man to catch his -breath between the whirl of the wrist and the gleam of the knife. -Unfortunately the American judge was a very stupid man, who disliked -Mexicans and hoped to wipe out cock-fighting. He accepted as evidence -statements made by the murdered man's friends to the effect that Ramon -had repeatedly threatened his life. -</p> -<p> -When Father Vaillant went to see the boy in his cell a few days before -his execution, he found him making a pair of tiny buckskin boots, as if -for a doll, and Ramon told him they were for the little Santiago in the -church at home. His family would come up to Santa Fé for the hanging, -and they would take the boots back to Chimayo, and perhaps the little -saint would say a good word for him. -</p> -<p> -Rubbing oil into his boots by candlelight, Father Vaillant sighed. The -criminals with whom he would have to do in Colorado would hardly be of -that type, he told himself. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>AUSPICE MARIA!</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE construction of Father Vaillant's wagon -took a month. It must be a wagon of very unusual design, capable of -carrying a great deal, yet light enough and narrow enough to wind -through the mountain gorges beyond Pueblo,—where there were no -roads at all except the rocky ravines cut out by streams that flowed -full in the spring but would be dry now in the autumn. While his wagon -was building, Father Joseph was carefully selecting his stores, and the -furnishings for a small chapel which he meant to construct of saplings -or canvas immediately upon his arrival at Camp Denver. Moreover, there -were his valises full of medals, crosses, rosaries, coloured pictures -and religious pamphlets. For himself, he required no books but his -breviary and the ordinary of the Mass. -</p> -<p> -In the Bishop's courtyard he sorted and re-sorted his cargo, always -finding a more necessary article for which a less necessary had to be -discarded. Fructosa and Magdalena were frequently called upon to help -him, and when a box was finally closed, Fructosa had it put away in the -woodshed. She had noticed the Bishop's brows contract slightly when he -came upon these trunks and chests in his hallway and dining-room. All -the bedding and clothing was packed in great sacks of dressed calfskin, -which Sabino procured from old Mexican settlers. These were already -going out of fashion, but in the early days they were the poor man's -trunk. -</p> -<p> -Bishop Latour also was very busy at this time, training a new priest -from Clermont; riding about with him among the distant parishes and -trying to give him an understanding of the people. As a Bishop, he could -only approve Father Vaillant's eagerness to be gone, and the enthusiasm -with which he turned to hardships of a new kind. But as a man, he was a -little hurt that his old comrade should leave him without one regret. He -seemed to know, as if it had been revealed to him, that this was a final -break; that their lives would part here, and that they would never work -together again. The bustle of preparation in his own house was painful -to him, and he was glad to be abroad among the parishes. -</p> -<p> -One day when the Bishop had just returned from Albuquerque, Father -Vaillant came in to luncheon in high spirits. He had been out for a -drive in his new wagon, and declared that it was satisfactory at last. -Sabino was ready, and he thought they would start the day after -to-morrow. He diagrammed his route on the table-cloth, and went over the -catalogue of his equipment. The Bishop was tired and scarcely touched -his food, but Father Joseph ate generously, as he was apt to do when -fired by a new project. -</p> -<p> -After Fructosa had brought the coffee, he leaned back in his chair and -turned to his friend with a beaming face. "I often think, Jean, how you -were an unconscious agent in the hands of Providence when you recalled -me from Tucson. I seemed to be doing the most important work of my life -there, and you recalled me for no reason at all, apparently. You did not -know why, and I did not know why. We were both acting in the dark. But -Heaven knew what was happening at Cripple Creek, and moved us like -chessmen on the board. When the call came, I was here to answer it—by -a miracle, indeed." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour put down his silver coffee-cup. "Miracles are all very -well, Joseph, but I see none here. I sent for you because I felt the -need of your companionship. I used my authority as a Bishop to gratify -my personal wish. That was selfish, if you will, but surely natural -enough. We are countrymen, and are bound by early memories. And that two -friends, having come together, should part and go their separate -ways—that is natural, too. No, I don't think we need any miracle to -explain all this." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant had been wholly absorbed in his preparations for saving -souls in the gold camps—blind to everything else. Now it came over -him in a flash, how the Bishop had held himself aloof from his activities; -it was a very hard thing for Father Latour to let him go; the loneliness -of his position had begun to weigh upon him. -</p> -<p> -Yes, he reflected, as he went quietly to his own room, there was a great -difference in their natures. Wherever he went, he soon made friends that -took the place of country and family. But Jean, who was at ease in any -society and always the flower of courtesy, could not form new ties. It -had always been so. He was like that even as a boy; gracious to -everyone, but known to a very few. To man's wisdom it would have seemed -that a priest with Father Latour's exceptional qualities would have been -better placed in some part of the world where scholarship, a handsome -person, and delicate perceptions all have their effect; and that a man -of much rougher type would have served God well enough as the first -Bishop of New Mexico. Doubtless Bishop Latour's successors would be men -of a different fibre. But God had his reasons, Father Joseph devoutly -believed. Perhaps it pleased Him to grace the beginning of a new era and -a vast new diocese by a fine personality. And perhaps, after all, -something would remain through the years to come; some ideal, or memory, -or legend. -</p> -<p> -The next afternoon, his wagon loaded and standing ready in the -courtyard, Father Vaillant was seated at the Bishop's desk, writing -letters to France; a short one to Marius, a long one to his beloved -Philomène, telling her of his plunge into the unknown and begging her -prayers for his success in the world of gold-crazed men. He wrote -rapidly and jerkily, moving his lips as well as his fingers. When the -Bishop entered the study, he rose and stood holding the written pages in -his hand. -</p> -<p> -"I did not mean to interrupt you, Joseph, but do you intend to take -Contento with you to Colorado?" -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph blinked. "Why, certainly. I had intended to ride him. -However, if you have need for him here——" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no. Not at all. But if you take Contento, I will ask you to take -Angelica as well. They have a great affection for each other; why -separate them indefinitely? One could not explain to them. They have -worked long together." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant made no reply. He stood looking intently at the pages of -his letter. The Bishop saw a drop of water splash down upon the violet -script and spread. He turned quickly and went out through the arched -doorway. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -At sunrise next morning Father Vaillant set out, Sabino driving the -wagon, his oldest boy riding Angelica, and Father Joseph himself riding -Contento. They took the old road to the north-east, through the sharp -red sand-hills spotted with juniper, and the Bishop accompanied them as -far as the loop where the road wound out on the top of one of those -conical hills, giving the departing traveller his last glimpse of Santa -Fé. There Father Joseph drew rein and looked back at the town lying -rosy in the morning light, the mountain behind it, and the hills close -about it like two encircling arms. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Auspice, Maria</i>!" he murmured as he turned his back on these -familiar things. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop rode home to his solitude. He was forty-seven years old, and -he had been a missionary in the New World for twenty years—ten of -them in New Mexico. If he were a parish priest at home, there would be -nephews coming to him for help in their Latin or a bit of pocket-money; -nieces to run into his garden and bring their sewing and keep an eye on -his housekeeping. All the way home he indulged in such reflections as -any bachelor nearing fifty might have. -</p> -<p> -But when he entered his study, he seemed to come back to reality, to the -sense of a Presence awaiting him. The curtain of the arched doorway had -scarcely fallen behind him when that feeling of personal loneliness was -gone, and a sense of loss was replaced by a sense of restoration. He sat -down before his desk, deep in reflection. It was just this solitariness -of love in which a priest's life could be like his Master's. It was not -a solitude of atrophy, of negation, but of perpetual flowering. A life -need not be cold, or devoid of grace in the worldly sense, if it were -filled by Her who was all the graces; Virgin-daughter, Virgin-mother, -girl of the people and Queen of Heaven: <i>le rêve suprême de la chair</i>. -The nursery tale could not vie with Her in simplicity, the wisest -theologians could not match Her in profundity. -</p> -<p> -Here in his own church in Santa Fé there was one of these nursery -Virgins, a little wooden figure, very old and very dear to the people. -De Vargas, when he recaptured the city for Spain two hundred years ago, -had vowed a yearly procession in her honour, and it was still one of the -most solemn events of the Christian year in Santa Fé. She was a little -wooden figure, about three feet high, very stately in bearing, with a -beautiful though rather severe Spanish face. She had a rich wardrobe; a -chest full of robes and laces, and gold and silver diadems. The women -loved to sew for her and the silversmiths to make her chains and -brooches. Father Latour had delighted her wardrobe keepers when he told -them he did not believe the Queen of England or the Empress of France -had so many costumes. She was their doll and their queen, something to -fondle and something to adore, as Mary's Son must have been to Her. -</p> -<p> -These poor Mexicans, he reflected, were not the first to pour out their -love in this simple fashion. Raphael and Titian had made costumes for -Her in their time, and the great masters had made music for Her, and the -great architects had built cathedrals for Her. Long before Her years on -earth, in the long twilight between the Fall and the Redemption, the -pagan sculptors were always trying to achieve the image of a goddess who -should yet be a woman. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Bishop Latour's premonition was right: Father Vaillant never returned to -share his work in New Mexico. Come back he did, to visit his old -friends, whenever his busy life permitted. But his destiny was fulfilled -in the cold, steely Colorado Rockies, which he never loved as he did the -blue mountains of the South. He came back to Santa Fé to recuperate -from the illnesses and accidents which consistently punctuated his way; -came with the Papal Emissary when Bishop Latour was made Archbishop; but -his working life was spent among bleak mountains and comfortless mining -camps, looking after lost sheep. -</p> -<p> -Creede, Durango, Silver City, Central City, over the Continental Divide -into Utah,—his strange Episcopal carriage was known throughout that -rugged granite world. -</p> -<p> -It was a covered carriage, on springs, and long enough for him to lie -down in at night,—Father Joseph was a very short man. At the back was -a luggage box, which could be made into an altar when he celebrated Mass -in the open, under a pine tree. He used to say that the mountain -torrents were the first road builders, and that wherever they found a -way, he could find one. He wore out driver after driver, and his coach -was repaired so often and so extensively that long before he abandoned -it there was none of the original structure left. -</p> -<p> -Broken tongues and singletrees, smashed wheels and splintered axles he -considered trifling matters. Twice the old carriage itself slipped off -the mountain road and rolled down the gorge, with the priest inside. -From the first accident of this kind, Father Vaillant escaped with -nothing worse than a sprain, and he wrote Bishop Latour that he -attributed his preservation to the Archangel Raphael, whose office he -had said with unusual fervour that morning. The second time he rolled -down a ravine, near Central City, his thigh-bone was broken just below -the joint. It knitted in time, but he was lamed for life, and could -never ride horseback again. -</p> -<p> -Before this accident befell him, however, he had one long visit among -his friends in Santa Fé and Albuquerque, a renewal of old ties that was -like an Indian summer in his life. When he left Denver, he told his -congregation there that he was going to the Mexicans to beg for money. -The church in Denver was under a roof, but the windows had been boarded -up for months because nobody would buy glass for them. In his Denver -congregation there were men who owned mines and saw-mills and -flourishing businesses, but they needed all their money to push these -enterprises. Down among the Mexicans, who owned nothing but a mud house -and a burro, he could always raise money. If they had anything at all, -they gave. -</p> -<p> -He called this trip frankly a begging expedition, and he went in his -carriage to bring back whatever he could gather. When he got as far as -Taos, his Irish driver mutinied. Not another mile over these roads, he -said. He knew his own territory, but here he refused to risk his neck -and the Padre's. There was then no wagon road from Taos to Santa Fé. It -was nearly a fortnight before Father Vaillant found a man who would -undertake to get him through the mountains. At last an old driver, -schooled on the wagon trains, volunteered; and with the help of ax and -pick and shovel, he brought the Episcopal carriage safely to Santa Fé -and into the Bishop's courtyard. -</p> -<p> -Once again among his own people, as he still called them, Father Joseph -opened his campaign, and the poor Mexicans began taking dollars out of -their shirts and boots (favourite places for carrying money) to pay for -windows in the Denver church. His petitions did not stop with -windows—indeed, they only began there. He told the sympathetic women -of Santa Fé and Albuquerque about all the stupid, unnecessary discomforts -of his life in Denver, discomforts that amounted to improprieties. It -was a part of the Wild West attitude to despise the decencies of life. -He told them how glad he was to sleep in good Mexican beds once more. In -Denver he lay on a mattress stuffed with straw; a French priest who was -visiting him had pulled out a long stem of hay that stuck through the -thin ticking, and called it an American feather. His dining-table was -made of planks covered with oilcloth. He had no linen at all, neither -sheets nor serviettes, and he used his wornout shirts for face towels. -The Mexican women could scarcely bear to hear of such things. Nobody in -Colorado planted gardens, Father Vaillant related; nobody would stick a -shovel into the earth for anything less than gold. There was no butter, -no milk, no eggs, no fruit. He lived on dough and cured hog meat. -</p> -<p> -Within a few weeks after his arrival, six featherbeds were sent to the -Bishop's house for Father Vaillant; dozens of linen sheets, embroidered -pillowcases and table-cloths and napkins; strings of chili and boxes of -beans and dried fruit. The little settlement of Chimayo sent a roll of -their finest blankets. -</p> -<p> -As these gifts arrived, Father Joseph put them in the woodhouse, knowing -well that the Bishop was always embarrassed by his readiness to receive -presents. But one morning Father Latour had occasion to go into the -woodhouse, and he saw for himself. -</p> -<p> -"Father Joseph," he remonstrated, "you will never be able to take all -these things back to Denver. Why, you would need an ox-cart to carry -them!" -</p> -<p> -"Very well," replied Father Joseph, "then God will send me an ox-cart." -</p> -<p> -And He did, with a driver to take the cart as far as Pueblo. -</p> -<p> -On the morning of his departure for home, when his carriage was ready, -the cart covered with tarpaulins and the oxen yoked, Father Vaillant, -who had been hurrying everyone since the first streak of light, suddenly -became deliberate. He went into the Bishop's study and sat down, talking -to him of unimportant matters, lingering as if there were something -still undone. -</p> -<p> -"Well, we are getting older, Jean," he said abruptly, after a short -silence. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled. "Ah, yes. We are not young men any more. One of these -departures will be the last." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant nodded. "Whenever God wills. I am ready." He rose and -began to pace the floor, addressing his friend without looking at him. -"But it has not been so bad, Jean? We have done the things we used to -plan to do, long ago, when we were Seminarians,—at least some of -them. To fulfil the dreams of one's youth; that is the best that can -happen to a man. No worldly success can take the place of that." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Blanchet</i>," said the Bishop rising, "you are a better man than I. -You have been a great harvester of souls, without pride and without -shame—and I am always a little cold—<i>un pédant</i>, as -you used to say. If hereafter we have stars in our crowns, yours will be -a constellation. Give me your blessing." -</p> -<p> -He knelt, and Father Vaillant, having blessed him, knelt and was blessed -in turn. They embraced each other for the past—for the future. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap09"></a>BOOK NINE -<br><br> -<i>DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">W</span>HEN that devout nun, Mother Superior -Philomène, died at a great age in her native Riom, among her papers -were found several letters from Archbishop Latour, one dated December -1888, only a few months before his death. "Since your brother was called -to his reward," he wrote, "I feel nearer to him than before. For many -years Duty separated us, but death has brought us together. The time is -not far distant when I shall join him. Meanwhile, I am enjoying to the -full that period of reflection which is the happiest conclusion to a -life of action." -</p> -<p> -This period of reflection the Archbishop spent on his little country -estate, some four miles north of Santa Fé. Long before his retirement -from the cares of the diocese, Father Latour bought those few acres in -the red sand-hills near the Tesuque pueblo, and set out an orchard which -would be bearing when the time came for him to rest. He chose this place -in the red hills spotted with juniper against the advice of his friends, -because he believed it to be admirably suited for the growing of fruit. -</p> -<p> -Once when he was riding out to visit the Tesuque mission, he had -followed a stream and come upon this spot, where he found a little -Mexican house and a garden shaded by an apricot tree of such great size -as he had never seen before. It had two trunks, each of them thicker -than a man's body, and though evidently very old, it was full of fruit. -The apricots were large, beautifully coloured, and of superb flavour. -Since this tree grew against the hill-side, the Archbishop concluded that -the exposure there must be excellent for fruit. He surmised that the -heat of the sun, reflected from the rocky hill-slope up into the tree, -gave the fruit an even temperature, warmth from two sides, such as -brings the wall peaches to perfection in France. -</p> -<p> -The old Mexican who lived there said the tree must be two hundred years -old; it had been just like this when his grandfather was a boy, and had -always borne luscious apricots like these. The old man would be glad to -sell the place and move into Santa Fé, the Bishop found, and he bought -it a few weeks later. In the spring he set out his orchard and a few -rows of acacia trees. Some years afterward he built a little adobe -house, with a chapel, high up on the hill-side overlooking the orchard. -Thither he used to go for rest and at seasons of special devotion. After -his retirement, he went there to live, though he always kept his study -unchanged in the house of the new Archbishop. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -In his retirement Father Latour's principal work was the training of the -new missionary priests who arrived from France. His successor, the -second Archbishop, was also an Auvergnat, from Father Latour's own -college, and the clergy of northern New Mexico remained predominantly -French. When a company of new priests arrived (they never came singly) -Archbishop S—— sent them out to stay with Father Latour for a -few months, to receive instruction in Spanish, in the topography of the -diocese, in the character and traditions of the different pueblos. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour's recreation was his garden. He grew such fruit as was -hardly to be found even in the old orchards of California; cherries and -apricots, apples and quinces, and the peerless pears of France—even -the most delicate varieties. He urged the new priests to plant fruit trees -wherever they went, and to encourage the Mexicans to add fruit to their -starchy diet. Wherever there was a French priest, there should be a -garden of fruit trees and vegetables and flowers. He often quoted to his -students that passage from their fellow Auvergnat, Pascal: that Man was -lost and saved in a garden. -</p> -<p> -He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one -hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats -over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle -thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of -Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full -of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost -pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal -colour and countless variations of it. -</p> -<p> -In the year 1885 there came to New Mexico a young Seminarian, Bernard -Ducrot, who became like a son to Father Latour. The story of the old -Archbishop's life, often told in the cloisters and class-rooms at -Montferrand, had taken hold of this boy's imagination, and he had long -waited an opportunity to come. Bernard was handsome in person and of -unusual mentality, had in himself the fineness to reverence all that was -fine in his venerable Superior. He anticipated Father Latour's every -wish, shared his reflections, cherished his reminiscences. -</p> -<p> -"Surely," the Bishop used to say to the priests, "God himself has sent -me this young man to help me through the last years." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HROUGHOUT the autumn of the year '88 the -Bishop was in good health. He had five French priests in his house, and -he still rode abroad with them to visit the nearer missions. On -Christmas eve, he performed the midnight Mass in the Cathedral at Santa -Fé. In January he drove with Bernard to Santa Cruz to see the resident -priest, who was ill. While they were on their way home the weather -suddenly changed, and a violent rain-storm overtook them. They were in -an open buggy and were drenched to the skin before they could reach any -Mexican house for shelter. -</p> -<p> -After arriving home, Father Latour went at once to bed. During the night -he slept badly and felt feverish. He called none of his household, but -arose at the usual hour before dawn and went into the chapel for his -devotions. While he was at prayer, he was seized with a chill. He made -his way to the kitchen, and his old cook, Fructosa, alarmed at once, put -him to bed and gave him brandy. This chill left him feverish, and he -developed a distressing cough. -</p> -<p> -After keeping quietly to his bed for a few days, the Bishop called young -Bernard to him one morning and said: -</p> -<p> -"Bernard, will you ride into Santa Fé to-day and see the Archbishop for -me. Ask him whether it will be quite convenient if I return to occupy my -study in his house for a short time. <i>Je voudrais mourir à Santa Fé</i>." -</p> -<p> -"I will go at once, Father. But you should not be discouraged; one does -not die of a cold." -</p> -<p> -The old man smiled. "I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of -having lived." -</p> -<p> -From that moment on, he spoke only French to those about him, and this -sudden relaxing of his rule alarmed his household more than anything -else about his condition. When a priest had received bad news from home, -or was ill, Father Latour would converse with him in his own language; -but at other times he required that all conversation in his house should -be in Spanish or English. -</p> -<p> -Bernard returned that afternoon to say that the Archbishop would be -delighted if Father Latour would remain the rest of the winter with him. -Magdalena had already begun to air his study and put it in order, and -she would be in special attendance upon him during his visit. The -Archbishop would send his new carriage to fetch him, as Father Latour -had only an open buggy. -</p> -<p> -"Not to-day, <i>mon fils</i>," said the Bishop. "We will choose a day when -I am feeling stronger; a fair day, when we can go in my own buggy, and you -can drive me. I wish to go late in the afternoon, toward sunset." -</p> -<p> -Bernard understood. He knew that once, long ago, at that hour of the -day, a young Bishop had ridden along the Albuquerque road and seen Santa -Fé for the first time... And often, when they were driving into town -together, the Bishop had paused with Bernard on that hill-top from which -Father Vaillant had looked back on Santa Fé, when he went away to -Colorado to begin the work that had taken the rest of his life and made -him, too, a Bishop in the end. -</p> -<p> -The old town was better to look at in those days, Father Latour used to -tell Bernard with a sigh. In the old days it had an individuality, a -style of its own; a tawny adobe town with a few green trees, set in a -half-circle of carnelian-coloured hills; that and no more. But the year -1880 had begun a period of incongruous American building. Now, half the -plaza square was still adobe, and half was flimsy wooden buildings with -double porches, scroll-work and jackstraw posts and banisters painted -white. Father Latour said the wooden houses which had so distressed him -in Ohio, had followed him. All this was quite wrong for the Cathedral -he had been so many years in building,—the Cathedral that had taken -Father Vaillant's place in his life after that remarkable man went away. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour made his last entry into Santa Fé at the end of a -brilliant February afternoon; Bernard stopped the horses at the foot of -the long street to await the sunset. -</p> -<p> -Wrapped in his Indian blankets, the old Archbishop sat for a long while, -looking at the open, golden face of his Cathedral. How exactly young -Molny, his French architect, had done what he wanted! Nothing -sensational, simply honest building and good stone-cutting,—good Midi -Romanesque of the plainest. And even now, in winter, when the acacia -trees before the door were bare, how it was of the South, that church, -how it sounded the note of the South! -</p> -<p> -No one but Molny and the Bishop had ever seemed to enjoy the beautiful -site of that building,—perhaps no one ever would. But these two had -spent many an hour admiring it. The steep carnelian hills drew up so -close behind the church that the individual pine trees thinly wooding -their slopes were clearly visible. From the end of the street where the -Bishop's buggy stood, the tawny church seemed to start directly out of -those rose-coloured hills—with a purpose so strong that it was like -action. Seen from this distance, the Cathedral lay against the -pinesplashed slopes as against a curtain. When Bernard drove slowly -nearer, the backbone of the hills sank gradually, and the towers rose -clear into the blue air, while the body of the church still lay against -the mountain. -</p> -<p> -The young architect used to tell the Bishop that only in Italy, or in -the opera, did churches leap out of mountains and black pines like that. -More than once Molny had called the Bishop from his study to look at the -unfinished building when a storm was coming up; then the sky above the -mountain grew black, and the carnelian rocks became an intense lavender, -all their pine trees strokes of dark purple; the hills drew nearer, the -whole background approached like a dark threat. -</p> -<p> -"Setting," Molny used to tell Father Latour, "is accident. Either a -building is a part of a place, or it is not. Once that kinship is there, -time will only make it stronger." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop was recalling this saying of Molny's when a voice out of the -present sounded in his ear. It was Bernard. -</p> -<p> -"A fine sunset, Father. See how red the mountains are growing; Sangre de -Cristo." -</p> -<p> -Yes, Sangre de Cristo; but no matter how scarlet the sunset, those red -hills never became vermilion, but a more and more intense rose-carnelian; -not the colour of living blood, the Bishop had often reflected, but the -colour of the dried blood of saints and martyrs preserved in old -churches in Rome, which liquefies upon occasion. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE next morning Father Latour wakened with -a grateful sense of nearness to his Cathedral—which would also be -his tomb. He felt safe under its shadow; like a boat come back to -harbour, lying under its own sea-wall. He was in his old study; the -Sisters had sent a little iron bed from the school for him, and their -finest linen and blankets. He felt a great content at being here, where -he had come as a young man and where he had done his work. The room was -little changed; the same rugs and skins on the earth floor, the same -desk with his candlesticks, the same thick, wavy white walls that muted -sound, that shut out the world and gave repose to the spirit. -</p> -<p> -As the darkness faded into the grey of a winter morning, he listened for -the church bells,—and for another sound, that always amused him here; -the whistle of a locomotive. Yes, he had come with the buffalo, and he -had lived to see railway trains running into Santa Fé. He had -accomplished an historic period. -</p> -<p> -All his relatives at home, and his friends in New Mexico, had expected -that the old Archbishop would spend his closing years in France, -probably in Clermont, where he could occupy a chair in his old college. -That seemed the natural thing to do, and he had given it grave -consideration. He had half expected to make some such arrangement the -last time he was in Auvergne, just before his retirement from his duties -as Archbishop. But in the Old World he found himself homesick for the -New. It was a feeling he could not explain; a feeling that old age did -not weigh so heavily upon a man in New Mexico as in the Puy-de-Dôm. -</p> -<p> -He loved the towering peaks of his native mountains, the comeliness of -the villages, the cleanness of the country-side, the beautiful lines and -the cloisters of his own college. Clermont was beautiful,—but he -found himself sad there; his heart lay like a stone in his breast. There -was too much past, perhaps... When the summer wind stirred the lilacs in -the old gardens and shook down the blooms of the horsechestnuts, he -sometimes closed his eyes and thought of the high song the wind was -singing in the straight, striped pine trees up in the Navajo forests. -</p> -<p> -During the day his nostalgia wore off, and by dinner-time it was quite -gone. He enjoyed his dinner and his wine, and the company of cultivated -men, and usually retired in good spirits. It was in the early morning -that he felt the ache in his breast; it had something to do with waking -in the early morning. It seemed to him that the grey dawn lasted so long -here, the country was a long while in coming to life. The gardens and -the fields were damp, heavy-mists hung in the valley and obscured the -mountains; hours went by before the sun could disperse those vapours and -warm and purify the villages. -</p> -<p> -In New Mexico he always awoke a young man; not until he rose and began -to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first -consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through the -windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sagebrush and sweet clover; a -wind that made one's body feel light and one's heart cry "To-day, -to-day," like a child's. -</p> -<p> -Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble -women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those -light-hearted mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy -again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new -countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear -harvests. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open -range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had -quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of -plowed land, the heaviness of labour and growth and grain-bearing, -utterly destroyed it; one could breathe that only on the bright edges of -the world, on the great grass plains or the sage-brush desert. -</p> -<p> -That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long -after his day. He did not know just when it had become so necessary to -him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it. Something -soft and wild and free, something that whispered to the ear on the -pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the -bolts, and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the -blue and gold, into the morning, into the morning! -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER LATOUR arranged an order for his -last days; if routine was necessary to him in health, it was even more -so in sickness. Early in the morning Bernard came with hot water, shaved -him, and helped him to bathe. They had brought nothing in from the -country with them but clothing and linen, and the silver toilet articles -the Olivares had given the Bishop so long ago; these thirty years he had -washed his hands in that hammered basin. Morning prayers over, Magdalena -came with his breakfast, and he sat in his easy-chair while she made his -bed and arranged his room. Then he was ready to see visitors. The -Archbishop came in for a few moments, when he was at home; the Mother -Superior, the American doctor. Bernard read aloud to him the rest of the -morning; St. Augustine, or the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or his -favourite Pascal. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, in the morning hours, he dictated to his young disciple -certain facts about the old missions in the diocese; facts which he had -come upon by chance and feared would be forgotten. He wished he could do -this systematically, but he had not the strength. Those truths and -fancies relating to a bygone time would probably be lost; the old -legends and customs and superstitions were already dying out. He wished -now that long ago he had had the leisure to write them down, that he -could have arrested their flight by throwing about them the light and -elastic mesh of the French tongue. -</p> -<p> -He had, indeed, for years, directed the thoughts of the young priests -whom he instructed to the fortitude and devotion of those first -missionaries, the Spanish friars; declaring that his own life, when he -first came to New Mexico, was one of ease and comfort compared with -theirs. If he had used to be abroad for weeks together on short rations, -sleeping in the open, unable to keep his body clean, at least he had the -sense of being in a friendly world, where by every man's fireside a -welcome awaited him. -</p> -<p> -But the Spanish Fathers who came up to Zuñi, then went north to the -Navajos, west to the Hopis, east to all the pueblos scattered between -Albuquerque and Taos, they came into a hostile country, carrying little -provisionment but their breviary and crucifix. When their mules were -stolen by Indians, as often happened, they proceeded on foot, without a -change of raiment, without food or water. A European could scarcely -imagine such hardships. The old countries were worn to the shape of -human life, made into an investiture, a sort of second body, for man. -There the wild herbs and the wild fruits and the forest fungi were -edible. The streams were sweet water, the trees afforded shade and -shelter. But in the alkali deserts the water holes were poisonous, and -the vegetation offered nothing to a starving man. Everything was dry, -prickly, sharp; Spanish bayonet, juniper, greasewood, cactus; the -lizard, the rattlesnake,—and man made cruel by a cruel life. Those -early missionaries threw themselves naked upon the hard heart of a -country that was calculated to try the endurance of giants. They -thirsted in its deserts, starved among its rocks, climbed up and down -its terrible canyons on stone-bruised feet, broke long fasts by unclean -and repugnant food. Surely these endured <i>Hunger</i>, <i>Thirst</i>, -<i>Cold</i>, <i>Nakedness</i>, of a kind beyond any conception St. Paul -and his brethren could have had. Whatever the early Christians suffered, -it all happened in that safe little Mediterranean world, amid the old -manners, the old landmarks. If they endured martyrdom, they died among -their brethren, their relics were piously preserved, their names lived -in the mouths of holy men. -</p> -<p> -Riding with his Auvergnats to the old missions that had been scenes of -martyrdom, the Bishop used to remind them that no man could know what -triumphs of faith had happened there, where one white man met torture -and death alone among so many infidels, or what visions and revelations -God may have granted to soften that brutal end. -</p> -<p> -When, as a young man, Father Latour first went down into Old Mexico, to -claim his See at the hands of the Bishop of Durango, he had met on his -journey priests from the missions of Sonora and Lower California, who -related many stories of the blessed experiences of the early Franciscan -missionaries. Their way through the wilderness had blossomed with little -miracles, it seemed. At one time, when the renowned Father Junípero -Serra, and his two companions, were in danger of their lives from trying -to cross a river at a treacherous point, a mysterious stranger appeared -out of the rocks on the opposite shore, and calling to them in Spanish, -told them to follow him to a point farther up the stream, where they -forded in safety. When they begged to know his name, he evaded them and -disappeared. At another time, they were traversing a great plain, and -were famished for water and almost spent; a young horseman overtook them -and gave them three ripe pomegranates, then galloped away. This fruit -not only quenched their thirst, but revived and strengthened them as -much as the most nourishing food could have done, and they completed -their journey like fresh men. -</p> -<p> -One night in his travels through Durango, Father Latour was entertained -at a great country estate where the resident chaplain happened to be a -priest from one of the western missions; and he told a story of this -same Father Junípero which had come down in his own monastery from the -old times. -</p> -<p> -Father Junípero, he said, with a single companion, had once arrived at -his monastery on foot, without provisions. The Brothers had welcomed the -two in astonishment, believing it impossible that men could have crossed -so great a stretch of desert in this naked fashion. The Superior -questioned them as to whence they had come, and said the mission should -not have allowed them to set off without a guide and without food. He -marvelled how they could have got through alive. But Father Junípero -replied that they had fared very well, and had been most agreeably -entertained by a poor Mexican family on the way. At this a muleteer, who -was bringing in wood for the Brothers, began to laugh, and said there -was no house for twelve leagues, nor anyone at all living in the sandy -waste through which they had come; and the Brothers confirmed him in -this. -</p> -<p> -Then Father Junípero and his companion related fully their adventure. -They had set out with bread and water for one day. But on the second day -they had been travelling since dawn across a cactus desert and had begun -to lose heart when, near sunset, they espied in the distance three great -cottonwood trees, very tall in the declining light. Toward these they -hastened. As they approached the trees, which were large and green and -were shedding cotton freely, they observed an ass tied to a dead trunk -which stuck up out of the sand. Looking about for the owner of the ass, -they came upon a little Mexican house with an oven by the door and -strings of red peppers hanging on the wall. When they called aloud, a -venerable Mexican, clad in sheepskins, came out and greeted them kindly, -asking them to stay the night. Going in with him, they observed that all -was neat and comely, and the wife, a young woman of beautiful -countenance, was stirring porridge by the fire. Her child, scarcely more -than an infant and with no garment but his little shirt, was on the -floor beside her, playing with a pet lamb. -</p> -<p> -They found these people gentle, pious, and well-spoken. The husband said -they were shepherds. The priests sat at their table and shared their -supper, and afterward read the evening prayers. They had wished to -question the host about the country, and about his mode of life and -where he found pasture for his flock, but they were overcome by a great -and sweet weariness, and taking each a sheepskin provided him, they lay -down upon the floor and sank into deep sleep. When they awoke in the -morning they found all as before, and food set upon the table, but the -family were absent, even to the pet lamb,—having gone, the Fathers -supposed, to care for their flock. -</p> -<p> -When the Brothers at the monastery heard this account they were amazed, -declaring that there were indeed three cottonwood trees growing together -in the desert, a well-known landmark; but that if a settler had come, he -must have come very lately. So Father Junípero and Father Andrea, his -companion, with some of the Brothers and the scoffing muleteer, went -back into the wilderness to prove the matter. The three tall trees they -found, shedding their cotton, and the dead trunk to which the ass had -been tied. But the ass was not there, nor any house, nor the oven by the -door. Then the two Fathers sank down upon their knees in that blessed -spot and kissed the earth, for they perceived what Family it was that -had entertained them there. -</p> -<p> -Father Junípero confessed to the Brothers how from the moment he -entered the house he had been strangely drawn to the child, and desired -to take him in his arms, but that he kept near his mother. When the -priest was reading the evening prayers the child sat upon the floor -against his mother's knee, with the lamb in his lap, and the Father -found it hard to keep his eyes upon his breviary. After prayers, when he -bade his hosts good-night, he did indeed stoop over the little boy in -blessing; and the child had lifted his hand, and with his tiny finger -made the cross upon Father Junípero's forehead. -</p> -<p> -This story of Father Junípero's Holy Family made a strong impression -upon the Bishop, when it was told him by the fireside of that great -hacienda where he was a guest for the night. He had such an affection -for that story, indeed, that he had allowed himself to repeat it on but -two occasions; once to the nuns of Mother Philomène's convent in Riom, -and once at a dinner given by Cardinal Mazzucchi, in Rome. There is -always something charming in the idea of greatness returning to -simplicity—the queen making hay among the country girls—but -how much more endearing was the belief that They, after so many -centuries of history and glory, should return to play Their first parts, -in the persons of a humble Mexican family, the lowliest of the lowly, -the poorest of the poor,—in a wilderness at the end of the world, -where the angels could scarcely find Them! -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>5</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER his <i>déjeuner</i> the old -Archbishop made a pretence of sleeping. He requested not to be disturbed -until dinner-time, and those long hours of solitude were precious to -him. His bed was at the dark end of the room, where the shadows were -restful to his eyes; on fair days the other end was full of sunlight, on -grey days the light of the fire flickered along the wavy white walls. -Lying so still that the bed-clothes over his body scarcely moved, with -his hands resting delicately on the sheet beside him or upon his breast, -the Bishop was living over his life. When he was otherwise motionless, -the thumb of his right hand would sometimes gently touch a ring on his -forefinger, an amethyst with an inscription cut upon it, <i>Auspice -Maria</i>,—Father Vaillant's signet-ring; and then he was almost -certainly thinking of Joseph; of their life together here, in this -room ... in Ohio beside the Great Lakes ... as young men in Paris ... as -boys at Montferrand. There were many passages in their missionary life -that he loved to recall; and how often and how fondly he recalled the -beginning of it! -</p> -<p> -They were both young men in their twenties, curates to older priests, -when there came to Clermont a Bishop from Ohio, a native of Auvergne, -looking for volunteers for his missions in the West. Father Jean and -Father Joseph heard him lecture at the Seminary, and talked with him in -private. Before he left for the North, they had pledged themselves to -meet him in Paris at a given date, to spend some weeks of preparation at -the College for Foreign Missions in the rue du Bac, and then to sail -with him from Cherbourg. -</p> -<p> -Both the young priests knew that their families would strongly oppose -their purpose, so they resolved to reveal it to no one; to make no -adieux, but to steal away disguised in civilian's clothes. They -comforted each other by recalling that St. Francis Xavier, when he set -forth as missionary to India, had stolen away like this; had "<i>passed -the dwelling of his parents without saluting them</i>," as they had learned -at school; terrible words to a French boy. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant's position was especially painful; his father was a -stern, silent man, long a widower, who loved his children with a jealous -passion and had no life but in their lives. Joseph was the eldest child. -The period between his resolve and its execution was a period of anguish -for him. As the date set for their departure drew near, he grew thinner -and paler than ever. -</p> -<p> -By agreement the two friends were to meet at dawn in a certain field -outside Riom on the fateful day, and there await the <i>diligence</i> for -Paris. Jean Latour, having made his decision and pledged himself, knew -no wavering. On the appointed morning he stole out of his sister's house -and took his way through the sleeping town to that mountain field, -tip-tilted by reason of its steepness, just beginning to show a cold -green in the heavy light of a cloudy day-break. There he found his -comrade in a miserable plight. Joseph had been abroad in the fields all -night, wandering up and down, finding his purpose and losing it. His -face was swollen with weeping. He shook with a chill, his voice was -beyond his control. -</p> -<p> -"What shall I do, Jean? Help me!" he cried. "I cannot break my father's -heart, and I cannot break the vow I have made to Heaven. I had rather -die than do either. Ah, if I could but die of this misery, here, now!" -</p> -<p> -How clearly the old Archbishop could recall the scene; those two young -men in the fields in the grey morning, disguised as if they were -criminals, escaping by stealth from their homes. He had not known how to -comfort his friend; it seemed to him that Joseph was suffering more than -flesh could bear, that he was actually being torn in two by conflicting -desires. While they were pacing up and down, arm-in-arm, they heard a -hollow sound; the <i>diligence</i> rumbling down the mountain gorge. Joseph -stood still and buried his face in his hands. The postilion's horn -sounded. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Allons</i>!" said Jean lightly. "<i>L'invitation du voyage</i>! You -will accompany me to Paris. Once we are there, if your father is not -reconciled, we will get Bishop F—— to absolve you from your -promise, and you can return to Riom. It is very simple." -</p> -<p> -He ran to the road-side and waved to the driver; the coach stopped. In a -moment they were off, and before long Joseph had fallen asleep in his -seat from sheer exhaustion. But he always said that if Jean Latour had -not supported him in that hour of torment, he would have been a parish -priest in the Puy de Dôm for the rest of his life. -</p> -<p> -Of the two young priests who set forth from Riom that morning in early -spring, Jean Latour had seemed the one so much more likely to succeed in -a missionary's life. He, indeed, had a sound mind in a sound body. -During the weeks they spent at the College of Foreign Missions in the -rue du Bac, the authorities had been very doubtful of Joseph's fitness -for the hardships of the mission field. Yet in the long test of years it -was that frail body that had endured more and accomplished more. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour often said that his diocese changed little except in -boundaries. The Mexicans were always Mexicans, the Indians were always -Indians. Santa Fé was a quiet backwater, with no natural wealth, no -importance commercially. But Father Vaillant had been plunged into the -midst of a great industrial expansion, where guile and trickery and -honourable ambition all struggled together; a territory that developed -by leaps and bounds and then experienced ruinous reverses. Every year, -even after he was crippled, he travelled thousands of miles by stage and -in his carriage, among the mountain towns that were now rich, now poor -and deserted; Boulder, Gold Hill, Caribou, Cache-à-la-Poudre, Spanish -Bar, South Park, up the Arkansas to Cache Creek and California Gulch. -</p> -<p> -And Father Vaillant had not been content to be a mere missionary priest. -He became a promoter. He saw a great future for the Church in Colorado. -While he was still so poor that he could not have a rectory of ordinary -comfort to live in, he began buying up great tracts of land for the -Church. He was able to buy a great deal of land for very little money, -but that little had to be borrowed from banks at a ruinous rate of -interest. He borrowed money to build schools and convents, and the -interest on his debts ate him up. He made long begging trips through -Ohio and Pennsylvania and Canada to raise money to pay this interest, -which grew like a rolling snowball. He formed a land company, went -abroad and floated bonds in France to raise money, and dishonest brokers -brought reproach upon his name. -</p> -<p> -When he was nearly seventy, with one leg four inches shorter than the -other, Father Vaillant, then first Bishop of Colorado, was summoned to -Rome to explain his complicated finance before the Papal court,—and -he had very hard work to satisfy the Cardinals. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When a dispatch was flashed into Santa Fé announcing Bishop Vaillant's -death, Father Latour at once took the new railroad for Denver. But he -could scarcely believe the telegram. He recalled the old nickname, -Trompe-la-Mort, and remembered how many times before he had hurried -across mountains and deserts, not daring to hope he would find his -friend alive. -</p> -<p> -Curiously, Father Latour could never feel that he had actually been -present at Father Joseph's funeral—or rather, he could not believe -that Father Joseph was there. The shrivelled little old man in the -coffin, scarcely larger than a monkey—that had nothing to do with -Father Vaillant. He could see Joseph as clearly as he could see Bernard, -but always as he was when they first came to New Mexico. It was not -sentiment; that was the picture of Father Joseph his memory produced for -him, and it did not produce any other. The funeral itself, he liked to -remember—as a recognition. It was held under canvas, in the open -air; there was not a building in Denver—in the whole Far West, for -that matter,—big enough for his <i>Blanchet's</i> funeral. For two -days before, the populations of villages and mining camps had been -streaming down the mountains; they slept in wagons and tents and barns; -they made a throng like a National Convention in the convent square. And -a strange thing happened at that funeral: -</p> -<p> -Father Revardy, the French priest who had gone from Santa Fé to -Colorado with Father Vaillant more than twenty years before, and had -been with him ever since as his curate and Vicar, had been sent to -France on business for his Bishop. While there, he was told by his -physician that he had a fatal malady, and he at once took ship and -hurried homeward, to make his report to Bishop Vaillant and to die in -the harness. When he got as far as Chicago, he had an acute seizure and -was taken to a Catholic hospital, where he lay very ill. One morning a -nurse happened to leave a newspaper near his bed; glancing at it, Father -Revardy saw an announcement of the death of the Bishop of Colorado. When -the Sister returned, she found her patient dressed. He convinced her -that he must be driven to the railway station at once. On reaching -Denver he entered a carriage and asked to be taken to the Bishop's -funeral. He arrived there when the services were nearly half over, and -no one ever forgot the sight of this dying man, supported by the -cab-driver and two priests, making his way through the crowd and -dropping upon his knees beside the bier. A chair was brought for him, -and for the rest of the ceremony he sat with his forehead resting -against the edge of the coffin. When Bishop Vaillant was carried away to -his tomb, Father Revardy was taken to the hospital, where he died a few -days later. It was one more instance of the extraordinary personal -devotion that Father Joseph had so often aroused and retained so long, -in red men and yellow men and white. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>6</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">D</span>URING those last weeks of the Bishop's -life he thought very little about death; it was the Past he was leaving. -The future would take care of itself. But he had an intellectual -curiosity about dying; about the changes that took place in a man's -beliefs and scale of values. More and more life seemed to him an -experience of the Ego, in no sense the Ego itself. This conviction, he -believed, was something apart from his religious life; it was an -enlightenment that came to him as a man, a human creature. And he -noticed that he judged conduct differently now; his own and that of -others. The mistakes of his life seemed unimportant; accidents that had -occurred <i>en route</i>, like the shipwreck in Galveston harbour, or -the runaway in which he was hurt when he was first on his way to New -Mexico in search of his Bishopric. -</p> -<p> -He observed also that there was no longer any perspective in his -memories. He remembered his winters with his cousins on the -Mediterranean when he was a little boy, his student days in the Holy -City, as clearly as he remembered the arrival of M. Molny and the -building of his Cathedral. He was soon to have done with calendared -time, and it had already ceased to count for him. He sat in the middle -of his own consciousness; none of his former states of mind were lost or -outgrown. They were all within reach of his hand, and all -comprehensible. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, when Magdalena or Bernard came in and asked him a question, -it took him several seconds to bring himself back to the present. He -could see they thought his mind was failing; but it was only -extraordinarily active in some other part of the great picture of his -life—some part of which they knew nothing. -</p> -<p> -When the occasion warranted he could return to the present. But there -was not much present left; Father Joseph dead, the Olivares both dead, -Kit Carson dead, only the minor characters of his life remained in -present time. One morning, several weeks after the Bishop came back to -Santa Fé, one of the strong people of the old deep days of life did -appear, not in memory but in the flesh, in the shallow light of the -present; Eusabio the Navajo. Out on the Colorado Chiquito he had heard -the word, passed on from one trading post to another, that the old -Archbishop was failing, and the Indian came to Santa Fé. He, too, was -an old man now. Once again their fine hands clasped. The Bishop brushed -a drop of moisture from his eye. -</p> -<p> -"I have wished for this meeting, my friend. I had thought of asking you -to come, but it is a long way." -</p> -<p> -The old Navajo smiled. "Not long now, any more. I come on the cars, -Padre. I get on the cars at Gallup, and the same day I am here. You -remember when we come together once to Santa Fé from my country? How -long it take us? Two weeks, pretty near. Men travel faster now, but I do -not know if they go to better things." -</p> -<p> -"We must not try to know the future, Eusabio. It is better not. And -Manuelito?" -</p> -<p> -"Manuelito is well; he still leads his people." -</p> -<p> -Eusabio did not stay long, but he said he would come again to-morrow, as -he had business in Santa Fé that would keep him for some days. He had -no business there; but when he looked at Father Latour he said to -himself, "It will not be long." -</p> -<p> -After he was gone, the Bishop turned to Bernard; "My son, I have lived -to see two great wrongs righted; I have seen the end of black slavery, -and I have seen the Navajos restored to their own country." -</p> -<p> -For many years Father Latour used to wonder if there would ever be an -end to the Indian wars while there was one Navajo or Apache left alive. -Too many traders and manufacturers made a rich profit out of that -warfare; a political machine and immense capital were employed to keep -it going. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>7</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Bishop's middle years in New Mexico had -been clouded by the persecution of the Navajos and their expulsion from -their own country. Through his friendship with Eusabio he had become -interested in the Navajos soon after he first came to his new diocese, -and he admired them; they stirred his imagination. Though this nomad -people were much slower to adopt white man's ways than the homestaying -Indians who dwelt in pueblos, and were much more indifferent to -missionaries and the white man's religion, Father Latour felt a superior -strength in them. There was purpose and conviction behind their -inscrutable reserve; something active and quick, something with an edge. -The expulsion of the Navajos from their country, which had been theirs -no man knew how long, had seemed to him an injustice that cried to -Heaven. Never could he forget that terrible winter when they were being -hunted down and driven by thousands from their own reservation to the -Bosque Redondo, three hundred miles away on the Pecos River. Hundreds of -them, men, women, and children, perished from hunger and cold on the -way; their sheep and horses died from exhaustion crossing the mountains. -None ever went willingly; they were driven by starvation and the -bayonet; captured in isolated bands, and brutally deported. -</p> -<p> -It was his own misguided friend, Kit Carson, who finally subdued the -last unconquered remnant of that people; who followed them into the -depths of the Canyon de Chelly, whither they had fled from their grazing -plains and pine forests to make their last stand. They were shepherds, -with no property but their live-stock, encumbered by their women and -children, poorly armed and with scanty ammunition. But this canyon had -always before proved impenetrable to white troops. The Navajos believed -it could not be taken. They believed that their old gods dwelt in the -fastnesses of that canyon; like their Shiprock, it was an inviolate -place, the very heart and centre of their life. -</p> -<p> -Carson followed them down into the hidden world between those towering -walls of red sandstone, spoiled their stores, destroyed their -deep-sheltered corn-fields, cut down the terraced peach orchards so dear -to them. When they saw all that was sacred to them laid waste, the -Navajos lost heart. They did not surrender; they simply ceased to fight, -and were taken. Carson was a soldier under orders, and he did a -soldier's brutal work. But the bravest of the Navajo chiefs he did not -capture. Even after the crushing defeat of his people in the Canyon de -Chelly, Manuelito was still at large. It was then that Eusabio came to -Santa Fé to ask Bishop Latour to meet Manuelito at Zuñi. As a priest, -the Bishop knew that it was indiscreet to consent to a meeting with this -outlawed chief; but he was a man, too, and a lover of justice. The -request came to him in such a way that he could not refuse it. He went -with Eusabio. -</p> -<p> -Though the Government was offering a heavy reward for his person, living -or dead, Manuelito rode off his own reservation down into Zuñi in broad -daylight, attended by some dozen followers, all on wretched, -half-starved horses. He had been in hiding out in Eusabio's country on -the Colorado Chiquito. -</p> -<p> -It was Manuelito's hope that the Bishop would go to Washington and plead -his people's cause before they were utterly destroyed. They asked -nothing of the Government, he told Father Latour, but their religion, -and their own land where they had lived from immemorial times. Their -country, he explained, was a part of their religion; the two were -inseparable. The Canyon de Chelly the Padre knew; in that canyon his -people had lived when they were a small weak tribe; it had nourished and -protected them; it was their mother. Moreover, their gods dwelt -there—in those inaccessible white houses set in caverns up in the -face of the cliffs, which were older than the white man's world, and -which no living man had ever entered. Their gods were there, just as the -Padre's God was in his church. -</p> -<p> -And north of the Canyon de Chelly was the Shiprock, a slender crag -rising to a dizzy height, all alone out on a flat desert. Seen at a -distance of fifty miles or so, that crag presents the figure of a -one-masted fishing-boat under full sail, and the white man named it -accordingly. But the Indian has another name; he believes that rock was -once a ship of the air. Ages ago, Manuelito told the Bishop, that crag -had moved through the air, bearing upon its summit the parents of the -Navajo race from the place in the far north where all peoples were -made,—and wherever it sank to earth was to be their land. It sank in -a desert country, where it was hard for men to live. But they had found -the Canyon de Chelly, where there was shelter and unfailing water. That -canyon and the Shiprock were like kind parents to his people, places -more sacred to them than churches, more sacred than any place is to the -white man. How, then, could they go three hundred miles away and live in -a strange land? -</p> -<p> -Moreover, the Bosque Redondo was down on the Pecos, far east of the Rio -Grande. Manuelito drew a map in the sand, and explained to the Bishop -how, from the very beginning, it had been enjoined that his people must -never cross the Rio Grande on the east, or the Rio San Juan on the -north, or the Rio Colorado on the west; if they did, the tribe would -perish. If a great priest, like Father Latour, were to go to Washington -and explain these things, perhaps the Government would listen. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour tried to tell the Indian that in a Protestant country the -one thing a Roman priest could not do was to interfere in matters of -Government. Manuelito listened respectfully, but the Bishop saw that he -did not believe him. When he had finished, the Navajo rose and said: -</p> -<p> -"You are the friend of Cristobal, who hunts my people and drives them -over the mountains to the Bosque Redondo. Tell your friend that he will -never take me alive. He can come and kill me when he pleases. Two years -ago I could not count my flocks; now I have thirty sheep and a few -starving horses. My children are eating roots, and I do not care for my -life. But my mother and my gods are in the West, and I will never cross -the Rio Grande." -</p> -<p> -He never did cross it. He lived in hiding until the return of his exiled -people. For an unforeseen thing happened: -</p> -<p> -The Bosque Redondo proved an utterly unsuitable country for the Navajos. -It could have been farmed by irrigation, but they were nomad shepherds, -not farmers. There was no pasture for their flocks. There was no -firewood; they dug mesquite roots and dried them for fuel. It was an -alkaline country, and hundreds of Indians died from bad water. At last -the Government at Washington admitted its mistake—which governments -seldom do. After five years of exile, the remnant of the Navajo people -were permitted to go back to their sacred places. -</p> -<p> -In 1875 the Bishop took his French architect on a pack trip into Arizona -to show him something of the country before he returned to France, and -he had the pleasure of seeing the Navajo horsemen riding free over their -great plains again. The two Frenchmen went as far as the Canyon de -Chelly to behold the strange cliff ruins; once more crops were growing -down at the bottom of the world between the towering sandstone walls; -sheep were grazing under the magnificent cottonwoods and drinking at the -streams of sweet water; it was like an Indian Garden of Eden. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Now, when he was an old man and ill, scenes from those bygone times, -dark and bright, flashed back to the Bishop: the terrible faces of the -Navajos waiting at the place on the Rio Grande where they were being -ferried across into exile; the long streams of survivors going back to -their own country, driving their scanty flocks, carrying their old men -and their children. Memories, too, of that time he had spent with -Eusabio on the Little Colorado, in the early spring, when the lambing -season was not yet over,—dark horsemen riding across the sands with -orphan lambs in their arms—a young Navajo woman, giving a lamb her -breast until a ewe was found for it. -</p> -<p> -"Bernard," the old Bishop would murmur, "God has been very good to let -me live to see a happy issue to those old wrongs. I do not believe, as I -once did, that the Indian will perish. I believe that God will preserve -him." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>8</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE American doctor was consulting with -Archbishop S—— and the Mother Superior. "It is his heart -that is the trouble now. I have been giving him small doses to stimulate -it, but they no longer have any effect. I scarcely dare increase them; -it might be fatal at once. But that is why you see such a change in -him." -</p> -<p> -The change was that the old man did not want food, and that he slept, or -seemed to sleep, nearly all the time. On the last day of his life his -condition was pretty generally known. The Cathedral was full of people -all day long, praying for him; nuns and old women, young men and girls, -coming and going. The sick man had received the Viaticum early in the -morning. Some of the Tesuque Indians, who had been his country -neighbours, came into Santa Fé and sat all day in the Archbishop's -courtyard listening for news of him; with them was Eusabio the Navajo. -Fructosa and Tranquilino, his old servants, were with the supplicants in -the Cathedral. -</p> -<p> -The Mother Superior and Magdalena and Bernard attended the sick man. -There was little to do but to watch and pray, so peaceful and painless -was his repose. Sometimes it was sleep, they knew from his relaxed -features; then his face would assume personality, consciousness, even -though his eyes did not open. -</p> -<p> -Toward the close of day, in the short twilight after the candles were -lighted, the old Bishop seemed to become restless, moved a little, and -began to murmur; it was in the French tongue, but Bernard, though he -caught some words, could make nothing of them. He knelt beside the bed: -"What is it, Father? I am here." -</p> -<p> -He continued to murmur, to move his hands a little, and Magdalena -thought he was trying to ask for something, or to tell them something. -But in reality the Bishop was not there at all; he was standing in a -tip-tilted green field among his native mountains, and he was trying to -give consolation to a young man who was being torn in two before his eyes -by the desire to go and the necessity to stay. He was trying to forge a -new Will in that devout and exhausted priest; and the time was short, -for the <i>diligence</i> for Paris was already rumbling down the mountain -gorge. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When the Cathedral bell tolled just after dark, the Mexican population -of Santa Fé fell upon their knees, and all American Catholics as well. -Many others who did not kneel prayed in their hearts. Eusabio and the -Tesuque boys went quietly away to tell their people; and the next -morning the old Archbishop lay before the high altar in the church he -had built. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Death comes for the archbishop - -Author: Willa Cather - -Release Date: January 7, 2023 [eBook #69730] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - The Internet Archive.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP *** - - - BY WILLA CATHER - - - - - DEATH COMES - FOR THE - ARCHBISHOP - - - - "_Auspice Maria!_" - Father Vaillant's signet-ring - - - - - NEW YORK - ALFRED A KNOPF--MCMXXVII - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1926, 1927, BY WILLA CATHER - - - - -_The Works of_ -WILLA CATHER - -ALEXANDER'S BRIDGE - -O PIONEERS! - -THE SONG OF THE LARK - -MY ANTONIA - -ONE OF OURS - -A LOST LADY - -THE PROFESSOR'S HOUSE - -MY MORTAL ENEMY - -YOUTH AND THE BRIGHT MEDUSA - - - - -CONTENTS - -Prologue. At Rome - -1. The Vicar Apostolic - -2. Missionary Journeys - -3. The Mass at Ácoma - -4. Snake Root - -5. Padre Martinez - -6. Doña Isabella - -7. The Great Diocese - -8. Gold under Pike's Peak - -9. Death Comes for the Archbishop - - - - -DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP - - - - -_PROLOGUE_ - -AT ROME - - -ONE summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary -Bishop from America were dining together in the gardens of a villa in -the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome. The villa was famous for the fine -view from its terrace. The hidden garden in which the four men sat at -table lay some twenty feet below the south end of this terrace, and was -a mere shelf of rock, overhanging a steep declivity planted with -vineyards. A flight of stone steps connected it with the promenade -above. The table stood in a sanded square, among potted orange and -oleander trees, shaded by spreading ilex oaks that grew out of the rocks -overhead. Beyond the balustrade was the drop into the air, and far below -the landscape stretched soft and undulating; there was nothing to arrest -the eye until it reached Rome itself. - -It was early when the Spanish Cardinal and his guests sat down to -dinner. The sun was still good for an hour of supreme splendour, and -across the shining folds of country the low profile of the city barely -fretted the sky-line--indistinct except for the dome of St. Peter's, -bluish grey like the flattened top of a great balloon, just a flash of -copper light on its soft metallic surface. The Cardinal had an eccentric -preference for beginning his dinner at this time in the late afternoon, -when the vehemence of the sun suggested motion. The light was full of -action and had a peculiar quality of climax--of splendid finish. It was -both intense and soft, with a ruddiness as of much-multiplied -candlelight, an aura of red in its flames. It bored into the ilex trees, -illuminating their mahogany trunks and blurring their dark foliage; it -warmed the bright green of the orange trees and the rose of the oleander -blooms to gold; sent congested spiral patterns quivering over the damask -and plate and crystal. The churchmen kept their rectangular clerical -caps on their heads to protect them from the sun. The three Cardinals -wore black cassocks with crimson pipings and crimson buttons, the Bishop -a long black coat over his violet vest. - -They were talking business; had met, indeed, to discuss an anticipated -appeal from the Provincial Council at Baltimore for the founding of an -Apostolic Vicarate in New Mexico--a part of North America recently -annexed to the United States. This new territory was vague to all of -them, even to the missionary Bishop. The Italian and French Cardinals -spoke of it as _Le Mexique_, and the Spanish host referred to it as "New -Spain." Their interest in the projected Vicarate was tepid, and had to -be continually revived by the missionary, Father Ferrand; Irish by -birth, French by ancestry--a man of wide wanderings and notable -achievement in the New World, an Odysseus of the Church. The language -spoken was French--the time had already gone by when Cardinals could -conveniently discuss contemporary matters in Latin. - -The French and Italian Cardinals were men in vigorous middle life--the -Norman full-belted and ruddy, the Venetian spare and sallow and -hook-nosed. Their host, Garcia Maria de Allande, was still a young man. -He was dark in colouring, but the long Spanish face, that looked out -from so many canvases in his ancestral portrait gallery, was in the -young Cardinal much modified through his English mother. With his -_caffè oscuro_ eyes, he had a fresh, pleasant English mouth, and an -open manner. - -During the latter years of the reign of Gregory XVI, de Allande had been -the most influential man at the Vatican; but since the death of Gregory, -two years ago, he had retired to his country estate. He believed the -reforms of the new Pontiff impractical and dangerous, and had withdrawn -from politics, confining his activities to work for the Society for the -Propagation of the Faith--that organization which had been so fostered -by Gregory. In his leisure the Cardinal played tennis. As a boy, in -England, he had been passionately fond of this sport. Lawn tennis had -not yet come into fashion; it was a formidable game of indoor tennis the -Cardinal played. Amateurs of that violent sport came from Spain and -France to try their skill against him. - -The missionary, Bishop Ferrand, looked much older than any of them, old -and rough--except for his clear, intensely blue eyes. His diocese lay -within the icy arms of the Great Lakes, and on his long, lonely -horseback rides among his missions the sharp winds had bitten him well. -The missionary was here for a purpose, and he pressed his point. He ate -more rapidly than the others and had plenty of time to plead his -cause,--finished each course with such dispatch that the Frenchman -remarked he would have been an ideal dinner companion for Napoleon. - -The Bishop laughed and threw out his brown hands in apology. "Likely -enough I have forgot my manners. I am preoccupied. Here you can scarcely -understand what it means that the United States has annexed that -enormous territory which was the cradle of the Faith in the New World. -The Vicarate of New Mexico will be in a few years raised to an Episcopal -See, with jurisdiction over a country larger than Central and Western -Europe, barring Russia. The Bishop of that See will direct the beginning -of momentous things." - -"Beginnings," murmured the Venetian, "there have been so many. But -nothing ever comes from over there but trouble and appeals for money." - -The missionary turned to him patiently. "Your Eminence, I beg you to -follow me. This country was evangelized in fifteen hundred, by the -Franciscan Fathers. It has been allowed to drift for nearly three -hundred years and is not yet dead. It still pitifully calls itself a -Catholic country, and tries to keep the forms of religion without -instruction. The old mission churches are in ruins. The few priests are -without guidance or discipline. They are lax in religious observance, -and some of them live in open concubinage. If this Augean stable is not -cleansed, now that the territory has been taken over by a progressive -government, it will prejudice the interests of the Church in the whole -of North America." - -"But these missions are still under the jurisdiction of Mexico, are they -not?" inquired the Frenchman. - -"In the See of the Bishop of Durango?" added Maria de Allande. - -The missionary sighed. "Your Eminence, the Bishop of Durango is an old -man; and from his seat to Santa Fé is a distance of fifteen hundred -English miles. There are no wagon roads, no canals, no navigable rivers. -Trade is carried on by means of pack-mules, over treacherous trails. The -desert down there has a peculiar horror; I do not mean thirst, nor -Indian massacres, which are frequent. The very floor of the world is -cracked open into countless canyons and arroyos, fissures in the earth -which are sometimes ten feet deep, sometimes a thousand. Up and down -these stony chasms the traveller and his mules clamber as best they can. -It is impossible to go far in any direction without crossing them. If -the Bishop of Durango should summon a disobedient priest by letter, who -shall bring the Padre to him? Who can prove that he ever received the -summons? The post is carried by hunters, fur trappers, gold seekers, -whoever happens to be moving on the trails." - -The Norman Cardinal emptied his glass and wiped his lips. - -"And the inhabitants, Father Ferrand? If these are the travellers, who -stays at home?" - -"Some thirty Indian nations, Monsignor, each with its own customs and -language, many of them fiercely hostile to each other. And the Mexicans, -a naturally devout people. Untaught and unshepherded, they cling to the -faith of their fathers." - -"I have a letter from the Bishop of Durango, recommending his Vicar for -this new post," remarked Maria de Allande. - -"Your Eminence, it would be a great misfortune if a native priest were -appointed; they have never done well in that field. Besides, this Vicar -is old. The new Vicar must be a young man, of strong constitution, full -of zeal, and above all, intelligent. He will have to deal with savagery -and ignorance, with dissolute priests and political intrigue. He must be -a man to whom order is necessary--as dear as life." - -The Spaniard's coffee-coloured eyes showed a glint of yellow as he -glanced sidewise at his guest. "I suspect, from your exordium, that you -have a candidate--and that he is a French priest, perhaps?" - -"You guess rightly, Monsignor. I am glad to see that we have the same -opinion of French missionaries." - -"Yes," said the Cardinal lightly, "they are the best missionaries. Our -Spanish fathers made good martyrs, but the French Jesuits accomplish -more. They are the great organizers." - -"Better than the Germans?" asked the Venetian, who had Austrian -sympathies. - -"Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange! The French -missionaries have a sense of proportion and rational adjustment. They -are always trying to discover the logical relation of things. It is a -passion with them." Here the host turned to the old Bishop again. "But -your Grace, why do you neglect this Burgundy? I had this wine brought up -from my cellar especially to warm away the chill of your twenty Canadian -winters. Surely, you do not gather vintages like, this on the shores of -the Great Lake Huron?" - -The missionary smiled as he took up his untouched glass. "It is superb, -your Eminence, but I fear I have lost my palate for vintages. Out there, -a little whisky, or Hudson Bay Company rum, does better for us. I must -confess I enjoyed the champagne in Paris. We had been forty days at sea, -and I am a poor sailor." - -"Then we must have some for you." He made a sign to his major-domo. "You -like it very cold? And your new Vicar Apostolic, what will he drink in -the country of bison and _serpents à sonnettes_? And what will he eat?" - -"He will eat dried buffalo meat and frijoles with chili, and he will be -glad to drink water when he can get it. He will have no easy life, your -Eminence. That country will drink up his youth and strength as it does -the rain. He will be called upon for every sacrifice, quite possibly for -martyrdom. Only last year the Indian pueblo of San Fernandez de Taos -murdered and scalped the American Governor and some dozen other whites. -The reason they did not scalp their Padre, was that their Padre was one -of the leaders of the rebellion and himself planned the massacre. That -is how things stand in New Mexico!" - -"Where is your candidate at present, Father?" - -"He is a parish priest, on the shores of Lake Ontario, in my diocese. I -have watched his work for nine years. He is but thirty-five now. He came -to us directly from the Seminary." - -"And his name is?" - -"Jean Marie Latour." - -Maria de Allande, leaning back in his chair, put the tips of his long -fingers together and regarded them thoughtfully. - -"Of course, Father Ferrand, the Propaganda will almost certainly appoint -to this Vicarate the man whom the Council at Baltimore recommends." - -"Ah yes, your Eminence; but a word from you to the Provincial Council, -an inquiry, a suggestion----" - -"Would have some weight, I admit," replied the Cardinal smiling. "And -this Latour is intelligent, you say? What a fate you are drawing upon -him! But I suppose it is no worse than a life among the Hurons. My -knowledge of your country is chiefly drawn from the romances of Fenimore -Cooper, which I read in English with great pleasure. But has your priest -a versatile intelligence? Any intelligence in matters of art, for -example?" - -"And what need would he have for that, Monsignor? Besides, he is from -Auvergne." - -The three Cardinals broke into laughter and refilled their glasses. They -were all becoming restive under the monotonous persistence of the -missionary. - -"Listen," said the host, "and I will relate a little story, while the -Bishop does me the compliment to drink my champagne. I have a reason for -asking this question which you have answered so finally. In my family -house in Valencia I have a number of pictures by the great Spanish -painters, collected chiefly by my great-grandfather, who was a man of -perception in these things and, for his time, rich. His collection of El -Greco is, I believe, quite the best in Spain. When my progenitor was an -old man, along came one of these missionary priests from New Spain, -begging. All missionaries from the Americas were inveterate beggars, -then as now, Bishop Ferrand. This Franciscan had considerable success, -with his tales of pious Indian converts and struggling missions. He came -to visit at my great-grandfather's house and conducted devotions in the -absence of the Chaplain. He wheedled a good sum of money out of the old -man, as well as vestments and linen and chalices--he would take -anything--and he implored my grandfather to give him a painting from his -great collection, for the ornamentation of his mission church among the -Indians. My grandfather told him to choose from the gallery, believing -the priest would covet most what he himself could best afford to spare. -But not at all; the hairy Franciscan pounced upon one of the best in the -collection; a young St. Francis in meditation, by El Greco, and the -model for the saint was one of the very handsome Dukes of Albuquerque. -My grandfather protested; tried to persuade the fellow that some picture -of the Crucifixion, or a martyrdom, would appeal more strongly to his -redskins. What would a St. Francis, of almost feminine beauty, mean to -the scalp-takers? - -"All in vain. The missionary turned upon his host with a reply which has -become a saying in our family: 'You refuse me this picture because it is -a good picture. _It is too good for God, but it is not too good for -you_.' - -"He carried off the painting. In my grandfather's manuscript catalogue, -under the number and title of the St. Francis, is written: _Given to -Fray Teodocio, for the glory of God, to enrich his mission church at -Pueblo de Cia, among the savages of New Spain_. - -"It is because of this lost treasure, Father Ferrand, that I happen to -have had some personal correspondence with the Bishop of Durango. I once -wrote the facts to him fully. He replied to me that the mission at Cia -was long ago destroyed and its furnishings scattered. Of course the -painting may have been ruined in a pillage or massacre. On the other -hand, it may still be hidden away in some crumbling sacristy or smoky -wigwam. If your French priest had a discerning eye, now, and were sent -to this Vicarate, he might keep my El Greco in mind." - -The Bishop shook his head. "No, I can't promise you--I do not know. I -have noticed that he is a man of severe and refined tastes, but he is -very reserved. Down there the Indians do not dwell in wigwams, your -Eminence," he added gently. - -"No matter, Father. I see your redskins through Fenimore Cooper, and I -like them so. Now let us go to the terrace for our coffee and watch the -evening come on." - -The Cardinal led his guests up the narrow stairway. The long gravelled -terrace and its balustrade were blue as a lake in the dusky air. Both -sun and shadows were gone. The folds of russet country were now violet. -Waves of rose and gold throbbed up the sky from behind the dome of the -Basilica. - -As the churchmen walked up and down the promenade, watching the stars -come out, their talk touched upon many matters, but they avoided -politics, as men are apt to do in dangerous times. Not a word was spoken -of the Lombard war, in which the Pope's position was so anomalous. They -talked instead of a new opera by young Verdi, which was being sung in -Venice; of the case of a Spanish dancing-girl who had lately become a -religious and was said to be working miracles in Andalusia. In this -conversation the missionary took no part, nor could he even follow it -with much interest. He asked himself whether he had been on the frontier -so long that he had quite lost his taste for the talk of clever men. But -before they separated for the night Maria de Allande spoke a word in his -ear, in English. - -"You are distrait, Father Ferrand. Are you wishing to unmake your new -Bishop already? It is too late. Jean Marie Latour--am I right?" - - - - - -BOOK ONE - -_THE VICAR APOSTOLIC_ - - - - -1 - -THE CRUCIFORM TREE - - -ONE afternoon in the autumn of 1851 a solitary horseman, followed by a -pack-mule, was pushing through an arid stretch of country somewhere in -central New Mexico. He had lost his way, and was trying to get back to -the trail, with only his compass and his sense of direction for guides. -The difficulty was that the country in which he found himself was so -featureless--or rather, that it was crowded with features, all exactly -alike. As far as he could see, on every side, the landscape was heaped -up into monotonous red sand-hills, not much larger than haycocks, and -very much the shape of haycocks. One could not have believed that in the -number of square miles a man is able to sweep with the eye there could -be so many uniform red hills. He had been riding among them since early -morning, and the look of the country had no more changed than if he had -stood still. He must have travelled through thirty miles of these -conical red hills, winding his way in the narrow cracks between them, -and he had begun to think that he would never see anything else. They -were so exactly like one another that he seemed to be wandering in some -geometrical nightmare; flattened cones, they were, more the shape of -Mexican ovens than haycocks--yes, exactly the shape of Mexican ovens, -red as brick-dust, and naked of vegetation except for small juniper -trees. And the junipers, too, were the shape of Mexican ovens. Every -conical hill was spotted with smaller cones of juniper, a uniform -yellowish green, as the hills were a uniform red. The hills thrust out -of the ground so thickly that they seemed to be pushing each other, -elbowing each other aside, tipping each other over. - -The blunted pyramid, repeated so many hundred times upon his retina and -crowding down upon him in the heat, had confused the traveller, who was -sensitive to the shape of things. - -"_Mais, c'est fantastique_!" he muttered, closing his eyes to rest them -from the intrusive omnipresence of the triangle. - -When he opened his eyes again, his glance immediately fell upon one -juniper which differed in shape from the others. It was not a -thick-growing cone, but a naked, twisted trunk, perhaps ten feet high, -and at the top it parted into two lateral, flat-lying branches, with a -little crest of green in the centre, just above the cleavage. Living -vegetation could not present more faithfully the form of the Cross. - -The traveller dismounted, drew from his pocket a much worn book, and -baring his head, knelt at the foot of the cruciform tree. - -Under his buckskin riding-coat he wore a black vest and the cravat and -collar of a churchman. A young priest, at his devotions; and a priest in -a thousand, one knew at a glance. His bowed head was not that of an -ordinary man,--it was built for the seat of a fine intelligence. His -brow was open, generous, reflective, his features handsome and somewhat -severe. There was a singular elegance about the hands below the fringed -cuffs of the buckskin jacket. Everything showed him to be a man of -gentle birth--brave, sensitive, courteous. His manners, even when he was -alone in the desert, were distinguished. He had a kind of courtesy -toward himself, toward his beasts, toward the juniper tree before which -he knelt, and the God whom he was addressing. - -His devotions lasted perhaps half an hour, and when he rose he looked -refreshed. He began talking to his mare in halting Spanish, asking -whether she agreed with him that it would be better to push on, weary as -she was, in hope of finding the trail. He had no water left in his -canteen, and the horses had had none since yesterday morning. They had -made a dry camp in these hills last night. The animals were almost at -the end of their endurance, but they would not recuperate until they got -water, and it seemed best to spend their last strength in searching for -it. - -On a long caravan trip across Texas this man had had some experience of -thirst, as the party with which he travelled was several times put on a -meagre water ration for days together. But he had not suffered then as -he did now. Since morning he had had a feeling of illness; the taste of -fever in his mouth, and alarming seizures of vertigo. As these conical -hills pressed closer and closer upon him, he began to wonder whether his -long wayfaring from the mountains of Auvergne were possibly to end here. -He reminded himself of that cry, wrung from his Saviour on the Cross, -"_J'ai soif_!" Of all our Lord's physical sufferings, only one, "I -thirst," rose to His lips. Empowered by long training, the young priest -blotted himself out of his own consciousness and meditated upon the -anguish of his Lord. The Passion of Jesus became for him the only -reality; the need of his own body was but a part of that conception. - -His mare stumbled, breaking his mood of contemplation. He was sorrier -for his beasts than for himself. He, supposed to be the intelligence of -the party, had got the poor animals into this interminable desert of -ovens. He was afraid he had been absent-minded, had been pondering his -problem instead of heeding the way. His problem was how to recover a -Bishopric. He was a Vicar Apostolic, lacking a Vicarate. He was thrust -out; his flock would have none of him. - -The traveller was Jean Marie Latour, consecrated Vicar Apostolic of New -Mexico and Bishop of Agathonica _in partibus_ at Cincinnati a year -ago--and ever since then he had been trying to reach his Vicarate. No -one in Cincinnati could tell him how to get to New Mexico--no one had -ever been there. Since young Father Latour's arrival in America, a -railroad had been built through from New York to Cincinnati; but there -it ended. New Mexico lay in the middle of a dark continent. The Ohio -merchants knew of two routes only. One was the Santa Fé trail from St. -Louis, but at that time it was very dangerous because of Comanche Indian -raids. His friends advised Father Latour to go down the river to New -Orleans, thence by boat to Galveston, across Texas to San Antonio, and -to wind up into New Mexico along the Rio Grande valley. This he had -done, but with what misadventures! - -His steamer was wrecked and sunk in the Galveston harbour, and he had -lost all his worldly possessions except his books, which he saved at the -risk of his life. He crossed Texas with a traders' caravan, and -approaching San Antonio he was hurt in jumping from an overturning -wagon, and had to lie for three months in the crowded house of a poor -Irish family, waiting for his injured leg to get strong. - -It was nearly a year after he had embarked upon the Mississippi that the -young Bishop, at about the sunset hour of a summer afternoon, at last -beheld the old settlement toward which he had been journeying so long: -The wagon train had been going all day through a greasewood plain, when -late in the afternoon the teamsters began shouting that over yonder was -the Villa. Across the level, Father Latour could distinguish low brown -shapes, like earthworks, lying at the base of wrinkled green mountains -with bare tops,--wave-like mountains, resembling billows beaten up from -a flat sea by a heavy gale; and their green was of two colors--aspen and -evergreen, not intermingled but lying in solid areas of light and dark. - -As the wagons went forward and the sun sank lower, a sweep of red -carnelian-coloured hills lying at the foot of the mountains came into -view; they curved like two arms about a depression in the plain; and in -that depression, was Santa Fé, at last! A thin, wavering adobe town ... -a green plaza ... at one end a church with two earthen towers that rose -high above the flatness. The long main street began at the church, the -town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring. The church -towers, and all the low adobe houses, were rose colour in that light,--a -little darker in tone than the amphitheatre of red hills behind; and -periodically the plumes of poplars flashed like gracious accent -marks,--inclining and recovering themselves in the wind. - -The young Bishop was not alone in the exaltation of that hour; beside -him rode Father Joseph Vaillant, his boyhood friend, who had made this -long pilgrimage with him and shared his dangers. The two rode into Santa -Fé together, claiming it for the glory of God. - - -How, then, had Father Latour come to be here in the sand-hills, many -miles from his seat, unattended, far out of his way and with no -knowledge of how to get back to it? - -On his arrival at Santa Fé, this was what had happened: The Mexican -priests there had refused to recognize his authority. They disclaimed -any knowledge of a Vicarate Apostolic, or a Bishop of Agathonica. They -said they were under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Durango, and had -received no instructions to the contrary. If Father Latour was to be -their Bishop, where were his credentials? A parchment and letters, he -knew, had been sent to the Bishop of Durango, but these had evidently -got no farther. There was no postal service in this part of the world; -the quickest and surest way to communicate with the Bishop of Durango -was to go to him. So, having travelled for nearly a year to reach Santa -Fé, Father Latour left it after a few weeks, and set off alone on -horseback to ride down into Old Mexico and back, a journey of full -three thousand miles. - -He had been warned that there were many trails leading off the Rio -Grande road, and that a stranger might easily mistake his way. For the -first few days he had been cautious and watchful. Then he must have -grown careless and turned into some purely local trail. When he realized -that he was astray, his canteen was already empty and his horses seemed -too exhausted to retrace their steps. He had persevered in this sandy -track, which grew ever fainter, reasoning that it must lead somewhere. - -All at once Father Latour thought he felt a change in the body of his -mare. She lifted her head for the first time in a long while, and seemed -to redistribute her weight upon her legs. The pack-mule behaved in a -similar manner, and both quickened their pace. Was it possible they -scented water? - -Nearly an hour went by, and then, winding between two hills that were -like all the hundreds they had passed, the two beasts whinnied -simultaneously. Below them, in the midst of that wavy ocean of sand, was -a green thread of verdure and a running stream. This ribbon in the -desert seemed no wider than a man could throw a stone,--and it was -greener than anything Latour had ever seen, even in his own greenest -corner of the Old World. But for the quivering of the hide on his mare's -neck and shoulders, he might have thought this a vision, a delusion of -thirst. - -Running water, clover fields, cottonwoods, acacias, little adobe houses -with brilliant gardens, a boy-driving a flock of white goats toward the -stream,--that was what the young Bishop saw. - -A few moments later, when he was struggling with his horses, trying to -keep them from overdrinking, a young girl with a black shawl over her -head came running toward him. He thought he had never seen a kindlier -face. Her greeting was that of a Christian. - -"_Ave Maria Purissima, Señor_. Whence do you come?" - -"Blessed child," he replied in Spanish, "I am a priest who has lost his -way. I am famished for water." - -"A priest?" she cried, "that is not possible! Yet I look at you, and it -is true. Such a thing has never happened to us before; it must be in -answer to my father's prayers. Run, Pedro, and tell father and -Salvatore." - - - - -2 - -HIDDEN WATER - - -AN hour later, as darkness came over the sand-hills, the young Bishop -was seated at supper in the motherhouse of this Mexican -settlement--which, he learned, was appropriately called _Agua Secreta_, -Hidden Water. At the table with him were his host, an old man called -Benito, the oldest son, and two grandsons. The old man was a widower, -and his daughter, Josepha, the girl who had run to meet the Bishop at -the stream, was his housekeeper. Their supper was a pot of frijoles -cooked with meat, bread and goat's milk, fresh cheese and ripe apples. - -From the moment he entered this room with its thick whitewashed adobe -walls, Father Latour had felt a kind of peace about it. In its bareness -and simplicity there was something comely, as there was about the -serious girl who had placed their food before them and who now stood in -the shadows against the wall, her eager eyes fixed upon his face. He -found himself very much at home with the four dark-headed men who sat -beside him in the candlelight. Their manners were gentle, their voices -low and agreeable. When he said grace before meat, the men had knelt on -the floor beside the table. The grandfather declared that the Blessed -Virgin must have led the Bishop from his path and brought him here to -baptize the children and to sanctify the marriages. Their settlement was -little known, he said. They had no papers for their land and were afraid -the Americans might take it away from them. There was no one in their -settlement who could read or write. Salvatore, his oldest son, had gone -all the way to Albuquerque to find a wife, and had married there. But -the priest had charged him twenty pesos, and that was half of all he had -saved to buy furniture and glass windows for his house. His brothers and -cousins, discouraged by his experience, had taken wives without the -marriage sacrament. - -In answer to the Bishop's questions, they told him the simple story of -their lives. They had here all they needed to make them happy. They spun -and wove from the fleece of their flocks, raised their own corn and -wheat and tobacco, dried their plums and apricots for winter. Once a -year the boys took the grain up to Albuquerque to have it ground, and -bought such luxuries as sugar and coffee. They had bees, and when sugar -was high they sweetened with honey. Benito did not know in what year his -grandfather had settled here, coming from Chihuahua with all his goods -in ox-carts. "But it was soon after the time when the French killed -their king. My grandfather had heard talk of that before he left home, -and used to tell us boys about it when he was an old man." - -"Perhaps you have guessed that I am a Frenchman," said Father Latour. - -No, they had not, but they felt sure he was not an American. José, the -elder grandson, had been watching the visitor uncertainly. He was a -handsome boy, with a triangle of black hair hanging over his rather -sullen eyes. He now spoke for the first time. - -"They say at Albuquerque that now we are all Americans, but that is not -true, Padre. I will never be an American. They are infidels." - -"Not all, my son. I have lived among Americans in the north for ten -years, and I found many devout Catholics." - -The young man shook his head. "They destroyed our churches when they -were fighting us, and stabled their horses in them. And now they will -take our religion away from us. We want our own ways and our own -religion." - -Father Latour began to tell them about his friendly relations with -Protestants in Ohio, but they had not room in their minds for two ideas; -there was one Church, and the rest of the world was infidel. One thing -they could understand; that he had here in his saddle-bags his -vestments, the altar stone, and all the equipment for celebrating the -Mass; and that to-morrow morning, after Mass, he would hear confessions, -baptize, and sanctify marriages. - -After supper Father Latour took up a candle and began to examine the -holy images on the shelf over the fire-place. The wooden figures of the -saints, found in even the poorest Mexican houses, always interested him. -He had never yet seen two alike. These over Benito's fire-place had come -in the oxcarts from Chihuahua nearly sixty years ago. They had been -carved by some devout soul, and brightly painted, though the colours had -softened with time, and they were dressed in cloth, like dolls. They -were much more to his taste than the factory-made plaster images in his -mission churches in Ohio--more like the homely stone carvings on the -front of old parish churches in Auvergne. The wooden Virgin was a -sorrowing mother indeed,--long and stiff and severe, very long from the -neck to the waist, even longer from waist to feet, like some of the -rigid mosaics of the Eastern Church. She was dressed in black, with a -white apron, and a black reboso over her head, like a Mexican woman of -the poor. At her right was St. Joseph, and at her left a fierce little -equestrian figure, a saint wearing the costume of a Mexican _ranchero_, -velvet trousers richly embroidered and wide at the ankle, velvet jacket -and silk shirt, and a high-crowned, broad-brimmed Mexican sombrero. He -was attached to his fat horse by a wooden pivot driven through the -saddle. - -The younger grandson saw the priest's interest in this figure. "That," -he said, "is my name saint, Santiago." - -"Oh, yes; Santiago. He was a missionary, like me. In our country we call -him St. Jacques, and he carries a staff and a wallet--but here he would -need a horse, surely." - -The boy looked at him in surprise. "But he is the saint of horses. Isn't -he that in your country?" - -The Bishop shook his head. "No. I know nothing about that. How is he the -saint of horses?" - -"He blesses the mares and makes them fruitful. Even the Indians believe -that. They know that if they neglect to pray to Santiago for a few -years, the foals do not come right." - -A little later, after his devotions, the young Bishop lay down in -Benito's deep feather-bed, thinking how different was this night from -his anticipation of it. He had expected to make a dry camp in the -wilderness, and to sleep under a juniper tree, like the Prophet, -tormented by thirst. But here he lay in comfort and safety, with love -for his fellow creatures flowing like peace about his heart. If Father -Vaillant were here, he would say, "A miracle"; that the Holy Mother, to -whom he had addressed himself before the cruciform tree, had led him -hither. And it was a miracle, Father Latour knew that. But his dear -Joseph must always have the miracle very direct and spectacular, not -with Nature, but against it. He would almost be able to tell the colour -of the mantle Our Lady wore when She took the mare by the bridle back -yonder among the junipers and led her out of the pathless sand-hills, as -the angel led the ass on the Flight into Egypt. - - * * * - -In the late afternoon of the following day the Bishop was walking alone -along the banks of the life-giving stream, reviewing in his mind the -events of the morning. Benito and his daughter had made an altar before -the sorrowful wooden Virgin, and placed upon it candles and flowers. -Every soul in the village, except Salvatore's sick wife, had come to the -Mass. He had performed marriages and baptisms and heard confessions and -confirmed until noon. Then came the christening feast. José had killed -a kid the night before, and immediately after her confirmation Josepha -slipped away to help her sisters-in-law roast it. When Father Latour -asked her to give him his portion without chili, the girl inquired -whether it was more pious to eat it like that. He hastened to explain -that Frenchmen, as a rule, do not like high seasoning, lest she should -hereafter deprive herself of her favourite condiment. - -After the feast the sleepy children were taken home, the men gathered in -the plaza to smoke under the great cottonwood trees. The Bishop, feeling -a need of solitude, had gone forth to walk, firmly refusing an escort. -On his way he passed the earthen thrashing-floor, where these people -beat out their grain and winnowed it in the wind, like the Children of -Israel. He heard a frantic bleating behind him, and was overtaken by -Pedro with the great flock of goats, indignant at their day's -confinement, and wild to be in the fringe of pasture along the hills. -They leaped the stream like arrows speeding from the bow, and regarded -the Bishop as they passed him with their mocking, humanly intelligent -smile. The young bucks were light and elegant in figure, with their -pointed chins and polished tilted horns. There was great variety in -their faces, but in nearly all something supercilious and sardonic. The -angoras had long silky hair of a dazzling whiteness. As they leaped -through the sunlight they brought to mind the chapter in the Apocalypse, -about the whiteness of them that were washed in the blood of the Lamb. -The young Bishop smiled at his mixed theology. But though the goat had -always been the symbol of pagan lewdness, he told himself that their -fleece had warmed many a good Christian, and their rich milk nourished -sickly children. - -About a mile above the village he came upon the water-head, a spring -overhung by the sharp-leafed variety of cottonwood called water willow. -All about it crowded the oven-shaped hills,--nothing to hint of water -until it rose miraculously out of the parched and thirsty sea of sand. -Some subterranean stream found an outlet here, was released from -darkness. The result was grass and trees and flowers and human life; -household order and hearths from which the smoke of burning piñon logs -rose like incense to Heaven. - -The Bishop sat a long time by the spring, while the declining sun poured -its beautifying light over those low, rose-tinted houses and bright -gardens. The old grandfather had shown him arrow-heads and corroded -medals, and a sword hilt, evidently Spanish, that he had found in the -earth near the water-head. This spot had been a refuge for humanity long -before these Mexicans had come upon it. It was older than history, like -those well-heads in his own country where the Roman settlers had set up -the image of a river goddess, and later the Christian priests had -planted a cross. This settlement was his Bishopric in miniature; -hundreds of square miles of thirsty desert, then a spring, a village, -old men trying to remember their catechism to teach their grandchildren. -The Faith planted by the Spanish friars and watered with their blood was -not dead; it awaited only the toil of the husbandman. He was not -troubled about the revolt in Santa Fé, or the powerful old native -priest who led it--Father Martinez, of Taos, who had ridden over from -his parish expressly to receive the new Vicar and to drive him away. He -was rather terrifying, that old priest, with his big head, violent -Spanish face, and shoulders like a buffalo; but the day of his tyranny -was almost over. - - - - -3 - -THE BISHOP _CHEZ LUI_ - - -IT was the late afternoon of Christmas Day, and the Bishop sat at his -desk writing letters. Since his return to Santa Fé his official -correspondence had been heavy; but the closely-written sheets over which -he bent with a thoughtful smile were not to go to Monsignori, or to -Archbishops, or to the heads of religious houses,--but to France, to -Auvergne, to his own little town; to a certain grey, winding street, -paved with cobbles and shaded by tall chestnuts on which, even to-day, -some few brown leaves would be clinging, or dropping one by one, to be -caught in the cold green ivy on the walls. - -The Bishop had returned from his long horseback trip into Mexico only -nine days ago. At Durango the old Mexican prelate there had, after some -delay, delivered to him the documents that defined his Vicarate, and -Father Latour rode back the fifteen hundred miles to Santa Fé through -the sunny days of early winter. On his arrival he found amity instead of -enmity awaiting him. Father Vaillant had already endeared himself to the -people. The Mexican priest who was in charge of the pro-cathedral had -gracefully retired--gone to visit his family in Old Mexico, and carried -his effects along with him. Father Vaillant had taken possession of the -priest's house, and with the help of carpenters and the Mexican women of -the parish had put it in order. The Yankee traders and the military -Commandant at Fort Marcy had sent generous contributions of bedding and -blankets and odd pieces of furniture. - -The Episcopal residence was an old adobe house, much out of repair, but -with possibilities of comfort. Father Latour had chosen for his study a -room at one end of the wing. There he sat, as this afternoon of -Christmas Day faded into evening. It was a long room of an agreeable -shape. The thick clay walls had been finished on the inside by the deft -palms of Indian women, and had that irregular and intimate quality of -things made entirely by the human hand. There was a reassuring solidity -and depth about those walls, rounded at door-sills and window-sills, -rounded in wide wings about the corner fire-place. The interior had been -newly whitewashed in the Bishop's absence, and the flicker of the fire -threw a rosy glow over the wavy surfaces, never quite evenly flat, never -a dead white, for the ruddy colour of the clay underneath gave a warm -tone to the lime wash. The ceiling was made of heavy cedar beams, -overlaid by aspen saplings, all of one size, lying close together like -the ribs in corduroy and clad in their ruddy inner skins. The earth -floor was covered with thick Indian blankets; two blankets, very old, -and beautiful in design and colour, were hung on the walls like -tapestries. - -On either side of the fire-place plastered recesses were let into the -wall. In one, narrow and arched, stood the Bishop's crucifix. The other -was square, with a carved wooden door, like a grill, and within it lay a -few rare and beautiful books. The rest of the Bishop's library was on -open shelves at one end of the room. - -The furniture of the house Father Vaillant had bought from the departed -Mexican priest. It was heavy and somewhat clumsy, but not unsightly. All -the wood used in making tables and bedsteads was hewn from tree boles -with the ax or hatchet. Even the thick planks on which the Bishop's -theological books rested were ax-dressed. There was not at that time a -turning-lathe or a saw-mill in all northern New Mexico. The native -carpenters whittled out chair rungs and table legs, and fitted them -together with wooden pins instead of iron nails. Wooden chests were used -in place of dressers with drawers, and sometimes these were beautifully -carved, or covered with decorated leather. The desk at which the Bishop -sat writing was an importation, a walnut "secretary" of American make -(sent down by one of the officers of the Fort at Father Vaillant's -suggestion). His silver candlesticks he had brought from France long -ago. They were given to him by a beloved aunt when he was ordained. - -The young Bishop's pen flew over the paper, leaving a trail of fine, -finished French script behind, in violet ink. - -"My new study, dear brother, as I write, is full of the delicious -fragrance of the piñon logs burning in my fire-place. (We use this kind -of cedar-wood altogether for fuel, and it is highly aromatic, yet -delicate. At our meanest tasks we have a perpetual odour of incense -about us.) I wish that you, and my dear sister, could look in upon this -scene of comfort and peace. We missionaries wear a frock-coat and -wide-brimmed hat all day, you know, and look like American traders. What -a pleasure to come home at night and put on my old cassock! I feel more -like a priest then--for so much of the day I must be a 'business -man'!--and, for some reason, more like a Frenchman. All day I am an -American in speech and thought--yes, in heart, too. The kindness of the -American traders, and especially of the military officers at the Fort, -commands more than a superficial loyalty. I mean to help the officers at -their task here. I can assist them more than they realize. The Church -can do more than the Fort to make these poor Mexicans 'good Americans.' -And it is for the people's good; there is no other way in which they can -better their condition. - -"But this is not the day to write you of my duties or my purposes. -To-night we are exiles, happy ones, thinking of home. Father Joseph has -sent away our Mexican woman,--he will make a good cook of her in time, -but to-night he is preparing our Christmas dinner himself. I had thought -he would be worn out to-day, for he has been conducting a Novena of High -Masses, as is the custom here before Christmas. After the Novena, and -the midnight Mass last night, I supposed he would be willing to rest -to-day; but not a bit of it. You know his motto, 'Rest in action.' I -brought him a bottle of olive-oil on my horse all the way from Durango -(I say 'olive-oil,' because here 'oil' means something to grease the -wheels of wagons!), and he is making some sort of cooked salad. We have -no green vegetables here in winter, and no one seems ever to have heard -of that blessed plant, the lettuce. Joseph finds it hard to do without -salad-oil, he always had it in Ohio, though it was a great extravagance. -He has been in the kitchen all afternoon. There is only an open -fire-place for cooking, and an earthen roasting-oven out in the -courtyard. But he has never failed me in anything yet; and I think I can -promise you that to-night two Frenchmen will sit down to a good dinner -and drink your health." - -The Bishop laid down his pen and lit his two candles with a splinter -from the fire, then stood dusting his fingers by the deep-set window, -looking out at the pale blue darkening sky. The evening-star hung above -the amber afterglow, so soft, so brilliant that she seemed to bathe in -her own silver light. _Ave Maris Stella_, the song which one of his -friends at the Seminary used to intone so beautifully; humming it softly -he returned to his desk and was just dipping his pen in the ink when the -door opened, and a voice said, - -"_Monseigneur est servi! Alors, Jean, veux-tu apporter les bougies._" - -The Bishop carried the candles into the dining-room, where the table was -laid and Father Vaillant was changing his cook's apron for his cassock. -Crimson from standing over an open fire, his rugged face was even -homelier than usual--though one of the first things a stranger decided -upon meeting Father Joseph was that the Lord had made few uglier men. He -was short, skinny, bow-legged from a life on horseback, and his -countenance had little to recommend it but kindliness and vivacity. He -looked old, though he was then about forty. His skin was hardened and -seamed by exposure to weather in a bitter climate, his neck scrawny and -wrinkled like an old man's. A bold, blunt-tipped nose, positive chin, a -very large mouth,--the lips thick and succulent but never loose, never -relaxed, always stiffened by effort or working with excitement. His -hair, sunburned to the shade of dry hay, had originally been -tow-coloured; "_Blanchet_" ("Whitey") he was always called at the -Seminary. Even his eyes were near-sighted, and of such a pale, watery -blue as to be unimpressive. There was certainly nothing in his outer -case to suggest the fierceness and fortitude and fire of the man, and -yet even the thick-blooded Mexican half-breeds knew his quality at once. -If the Bishop returned to find Santa Fé friendly to him, it was because -everybody believed in Father Vaillant--homely, real, persistent, with -the driving power of a dozen men in his poorly built body. - -On coming into the dining-room, Bishop Latour placed his candlesticks -over the fire-place, since there were already six upon the table, -illuminating the brown soup-pot. After they had stood for a moment in -prayer, Father Joseph lifted the cover and ladled the soup into the -plates, a dark onion soup with croutons. The Bishop tasted it critically -and smiled at his companion. After the spoon had travelled to his lips a -few times, he put it down and leaning back in his chair remarked, - -"Think of it, _Blanchet_; in all this vast country between the -Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean, there is probably not another human -being who could make a soup like this." - -"Not unless he is a Frenchman," said Father Joseph. He had tucked a -napkin over the front of his cassock and was losing no time in -reflection. - -"I am not deprecating your individual talent, Joseph," the Bishop -continued, "but, when one thinks of it, a soup like this is not the work -of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There -are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup." - -Father Joseph frowned intently at the earthen pot in the middle of the -table. His pale, near-sighted eyes had always the look of peering into -distance. "_C'est ça, c'est vrai_," he murmured. "But how," he -exclaimed as he filled the Bishop's plate again, "how can a man make a -proper soup without leeks, that king of vegetables? We cannot go on -eating onions for ever." - -After carrying away the _soupière_, he brought in the roast chicken and -_pommes sautées_. "And salad, Jean," he continued as he began to carve. -"Are we to eat dried beans and roots for the rest of our lives? Surely -we must find time to make a garden. Ah, my garden at Sandusky! And you -could snatch me away from it! You will admit that you never ate better -lettuces in France. And my vineyard; a natural habitat for the vine, -that. I tell you, the shores of Lake Erie will be covered with vineyards -one day. I envy the man who is drinking my wine. Ah well, that is a -missionary's life; to plant where another shall reap." - -As this was Christmas Day, the two friends were speaking in their native -tongue. For years they had made it a practice to speak English together, -except upon very special occasions, and of late they conversed in -Spanish, in which they both needed to gain fluency. - -"And yet sometimes you used to chafe a little at your dear Sandusky and -its comforts," the Bishop reminded him--"to say that you would end a -home-staying parish priest, after all." - -"Of course, one wants to eat one's cake and have it, as they say in -Ohio. But no farther, Jean. This is far enough. Do not drag me any -farther." Father Joseph began gently to coax the cork from a bottle of -red wine with his fingers. "This I begged for your dinner at the -hacienda where I went to baptize the baby on St. Thomas's Day. It is not -easy to separate these rich Mexicans from their French wine. They know -its worth." He poured a few drops and tried it. "A slight taste of the -cork; they do not know how to keep it properly. However, it is quite -good enough for missionaries." - -"You ask me not to drag you any farther, Joseph. I wish," Bishop Latour -leaned back in his chair and locked his hands together beneath his chin, -"I wish I knew how far this is! Does anyone know the extent of this -diocese, or of this territory? The Commandant at the Fort seems as much -in the dark as I. He says I can get some information from the scout, Kit -Carson, who lives at Taos." - -"Don't begin worrying about the diocese, Jean. For the present, Santa -Fé is the diocese. Establish order at home. To-morrow I will have a -reckoning with the churchwardens, who allowed that band of drunken -cowboys to come in to the midnight Mass and defile the font. There is -enough to do here. _Festina lente_. I have made a resolve not to go more -than three days' journey from Santa Fé for one year." - -The Bishop smiled and shook his head. "And when you were at the -Seminary, you made a resolve to lead a life of contemplation." - -A light leaped into Father Joseph's homely face. "I have not yet -renounced that hope. One day you will release me, and I will return to -some religious house in France and end my days in devotion to the Holy -Mother. For the time being, it is my destiny to serve Her in action. But -this is far enough, Jean." - -The Bishop again shook his head and murmured, "Who knows how far?" - -The vary little priest whose life was to be a succession of mountain -ranges, pathless deserts, yawning canyons and swollen rivers, who was to -carry the Cross into territories yet unknown and unnamed, who would wear -down mules and horses and scouts and stage-drivers, to-night looked -apprehensively at his superior and repeated, "No more, Jean. This is far -enough." Then making haste to change the subject, he said briskly, "A -bean salad was the best I could do for you; but with onion, and just a -suspicion of salt pork, it is not so bad." - -Over the compote of dried plums they fell to talking of the great yellow -ones that grew in the old Latour garden at home. Their thoughts met in -that tilted cobble street, winding down a hill, with the uneven garden -walls and tall horse-chestnuts on either side; a lonely street after -nightfall, with soft street lamps shaped like lanterns at the darkest -turnings. At the end of it was the church where the Bishop made his -first Communion, with a grove of flat-cut plane trees in front, under -which the market was held on Tuesdays and Fridays. - -While they lingered over these memories--an indulgence they seldom -permitted themselves--the two missionaries were startled by a volley of -rifle-shots and blood-curdling yells without, and the galloping of -horses. The Bishop half rose, but Father Joseph reassured him with a -shrug. - -"Do not discompose yourself. The same thing happened here on the eve of -All Souls' Day. A band of drunken cowboys, like those who came into the -church last night, go out to the pueblo and get the Tesuque Indian boys -drunk, and then they ride in to serenade the soldiers at the Fort in -this manner." - - - - -4 - -A BELL AND A MIRACLE - - -ON the morning after the Bishop's return from Durango, after his first -night in his Episcopal residence, he had a pleasant awakening from -sleep. He had ridden into the courtyard after nightfall, having changed -horses at a _rancho_ and pushed on nearly sixty miles in order to reach -home. Consequently he slept late the next morning--did not awaken until -six o'clock, when he heard the Angelus ringing. He recovered -consciousness slowly, unwilling to let go of a pleasing delusion that he -was in Rome. Still half believing that he was lodged near St. John -Lateran, he yet heard every stroke of the Ave Maria bell, marvelling to -hear it rung correctly (nine quick strokes in all, divided into threes, -with an interval between); and from a bell with beautiful tone. Full, -clear, with something bland and suave, each note floated through the air -like a globe of silver. Before the nine strokes were done Rome faded, -and behind it he sensed something Eastern, with palm trees,--Jerusalem, -perhaps, though he had never been there. Keeping his eyes closed, he -cherished for a moment this sudden, pervasive sense of the East. Once -before he had been carried out of the body thus to a place far away. It -had happened in a street in New Orleans. He had turned a corner and come -upon an old woman with a basket of yellow flowers; sprays of yellow -sending out a honey-sweet perfume. Mimosa--but before he could think of -the name he was overcome by a feeling of place, was dropped, cassock and -all, into a garden in the south of France where he had been sent one -winter in his childhood to recover from an illness. And now this silvery -bell note had carried him farther and faster than sound could travel. - -When he joined Father Vaillant at coffee, that impetuous man who could -never keep a secret asked him anxiously whether he had heard anything. - -"I thought I heard the Angelus, Father Joseph, but my reason tells me -that only a long sea voyage could bring me within sound of such a bell." - -"Not at all," said Father Joseph briskly. "I found that remarkable bell -here, in the basement of old San Miguel. They tell me it has been here a -hundred years or more. There is no church tower in the place strong -enough to hold it--it is very thick and must weigh close upon eight -hundred pounds. But I had a scaffolding built in the churchyard, and -with the help of oxen we raised it and got it swung on crossbeams. I -taught a Mexican boy to ring it properly against your return." - -"But how could it have come here? It is Spanish, I suppose?" - -"Yes, the inscription is in Spanish, to St. Joseph, and the date is -1356. It must have been brought up from Mexico City in an ox-cart. A -heroic undertaking, certainly. Nobody knows where it was cast. But they -do tell a story about it: that it was pledged to St. Joseph in the wars -with the Moors, and that the people of some besieged city brought all -their plate and silver and gold ornaments and threw them in with the -baser metals. There is certainly a good deal of silver in the bell, -nothing else would account for its tone." - -Father Latour reflected. "And the silver of the Spaniards was really -Moorish, was it not? If not actually of Moorish make, copied from their -design. The Spaniards knew nothing about working silver except as they -learned it from the Moors." - -"What are you doing, Jean? Trying to make my bell out an infidel?" -Father Joseph asked impatiently. - -The Bishop smiled. "I am trying to account for the fact that when I -heard it this morning it struck me at once as something oriental. A -learned Scotch Jesuit in Montreal told me that our first bells, and the -introduction of the bell in the service all over Europe, originally came -from the East. He said the Templars brought the Angelus back from the -Crusades, and it is really an adaptation of a Moslem custom." - -Father Vaillant sniffed. "I notice that scholars always manage to dig -out something belittling," he complained. - -"Belittling? I should say the reverse. I am glad to think there is -Moorish silver in your bell. When we first came here, the one good -workman we found in Santa Fé was a silversmith. The Spaniards handed on -their skill to the Mexicans, and the Mexicans have taught the Navajos to -work silver; but it all came from the Moors." - -"I am no scholar, as you know," said Father Vaillant rising. "And this -morning we have many practical affairs to occupy us. I have promised -that you will give an audience to a good old man, a native priest from -the Indian mission at Santa Clara, who is returning from Mexico. He has -just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and -has been much edified. He would like to tell you the story of his -experience. It seems that ever since he was ordained he has desired to -visit the shrine. During your absence I have found how particularly -precious is that shrine to all Catholics in New Mexico. They regard it -as the one absolutely authenticated appearance of the Blessed Virgin in -the New World, and a witness of Her affection for Her Church on this -continent." - -The Bishop went into his study, and Father Vaillant brought in Padre -Escolastico Herrera, a man of nearly seventy, who had been forty years -in the ministry, and had just accomplished the pious desire of a -lifetime. His mind was still full of the sweetness of his late -experience. He was so rapt that nothing else interested him. He asked -anxiously whether perhaps the Bishop would have more leisure to attend -to him later in the day. But Father Latour placed a chair for him and -told him to proceed. - -The old man thanked him for the privilege of being seated. Leaning -forward, with his hands locked between his knees, he told the whole -story of the miraculous appearance, both because it was so dear to his -heart, and because he was sure that no "American" Bishop would have -heard of the occurrence as it was, though at Rome all the details were -well known and two Popes had sent gifts to the shrine. - - -On Saturday, December 9th, in the year 1531, a poor neophyte of the -monastery of St. James was hurrying down Tapeyac hill to attend Mass in -the City of Mexico. His name was Juan Diego and he was fifty-five years -old. When he was half way down the hill a light shone in his path, and -the Mother of God appeared to him as a young woman of great beauty, clad -in blue and gold. She greeted him by name and said: - -"Juan, seek out thy Bishop and bid him build a church in my honour on -the spot where I now stand. Go then, and I will bide here and await thy -return." - -Brother Juan ran into the City and straight to the Bishop's palace, -where he reported the matter. The Bishop was Zumarraga, a Spaniard. He -questioned the monk severely and told him he should have required a sign -of the Lady to assure him that she was indeed the Mother of God and not -some evil spirit. He dismissed the poor brother harshly and set an -attendant to watch his actions. - -Juan went forth very downcast and repaired to the house of his uncle, -Bernardino, who was sick of a fever. The two succeeding days he spent in -caring for this aged man who seemed at the point of death. Because of -the Bishop's reproof he had fallen into doubt, and did not return to the -spot where the Lady said She would await him. On Tuesday he left the -City to go back to his monastery to fetch medicines for Bernardino, but -he avoided the place where he had seen the vision and went by another -way. - -Again he saw a light in his path and the Virgin appeared to him as -before, saying, "Juan, why goest thou by this way?" - -Weeping, he told Her that the Bishop had distrusted his report, and that -he had been employed in caring for his uncle, who was sick unto death. -The Lady spoke to him with all comfort, telling him that his uncle would -be healed within the hour, and that he should return to Bishop Zumarraga -and bid him build a church where She had first appeared to him. It must -be called the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, after Her dear shrine of -that name in Spain. When Brother Juan replied to Her that the Bishop -required a sign, She said: "Go up on the rocks yonder, and gather -roses." - -Though it was December and not the season for roses, he ran up among the -rocks and found such roses as he had never seen before. He gathered them -until he had filled his _tilma_. The _tilma_ was a mantle worn only by -the very poor,--a wretched garment loosely woven of coarse vegetable -fibre and sewn down the middle. When he returned to the apparition, She -bent over the flowers and took pains to arrange them, then closed the -ends of the _tilma_ together and said to him: - -"Go now, and do not open your mantle until you open it before your -Bishop." - -Juan sped into the City and gained admission to the Bishop, who was in -council with his Vicar. - -"Your Grace," he said, "the Blessed Lady who appeared to me has sent you -these roses for a sign." - -At this he held up one end of his _tilma_ and let the roses fall in -profusion to the floor. To his astonishment, Bishop Zumarraga and his -Vicar instantly fell upon their knees among the flowers. On the inside -of his poor mantle was a painting of the Blessed Virgin, in robes of -blue and rose and gold, exactly as She had appeared to him upon the -hill-side. - -A shrine was built to contain this miraculous portrait, which since that -day has been the goal of countless pilgrimages and has performed many -miracles. - - -Of this picture Padre Escolastico had much to say: he affirmed that it -was of marvellous beauty, rich with gold, and the colours as pure and -delicate as the tints of early morning. Many painters had visited the -shrine and marvelled that paint could be laid at all upon such poor and -coarse material. In the ordinary way of nature, the flimsy mantle would -have fallen to pieces long ago. The Padre modestly presented Bishop -Latour and Father Joseph with little medals he had brought from the -shrine; on one side a relief of the miraculous portrait, on the other an -inscription: _Non fecit taliter omni nationi_. (_She hath not dealt so -with any nation_.) - -Father Vaillant was deeply stirred by the priest's recital, and after -the old man had gone he declared to the Bishop that he meant himself to -make a pilgrimage to this shrine at the earliest opportunity. - -"What a priceless thing for the poor converts of a savage country!" he -exclaimed, wiping his glasses, which were clouded by his strong feeling. -"All these poor Catholics who have been so long without instruction have -at least the reassurance of that visitation. It is a household word with -them that their Blessed Mother revealed Herself in their own country, to -a poor convert. Doctrine is well enough for the wise, Jean; but the -miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love." - -Father Vaillant began pacing restlessly up and down as he spoke, and the -Bishop watched him, musing. It was just this in his friend that was dear -to him. "Where there is great love there are always miracles," he said -at length. "One might almost say that an apparition is human vision -corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I -see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to -me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming -suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made -finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what -is there about us always." - - - - -BOOK TWO - -_MISSIONARY JOURNEYS_ - - - - -1 - -THE WHITE MULES - - -IN mid-March, Father Vaillant was on the road, returning from a -missionary journey to Albuquerque. He was to stop at the _rancho_ of a -rich Mexican, Manuel Lujon, to marry his men and maid servants who were -living in concubinage, and to baptize the children. There he would spend -the night. To-morrow or the day after he would go on to Santa Fé, -halting by the way at the Indian pueblo of Santo Domingo to hold -service. There was a fine old mission church at Santo Domingo, but the -Indians were of a haughty and suspicious disposition. He had said Mass -there on his way to Albuquerque, nearly a week ago. By dint of -canvassing from house to house, and offering medals and religious colour -prints to all who came to church, he had got together a considerable -congregation. It was a large and prosperous pueblo, set among clean -sand-hills, with its rich irrigated farm lands lying just below, in the -valley of the Rio Grande. His congregation was quiet, dignified, -attentive. They sat on the earth floor, wrapped in their best blankets, -repose in every line of their strong, stubborn backs. He harangued them -in such Spanish as he could command, and they listened with respect. But -bring their children to be baptized, they would not. The Spaniards had -treated them very badly long ago, and they had been meditating upon -their grievance for many generations. Father Vaillant had not baptized -one infant there, but he meant to stop to-morrow and try again. Then -back to his Bishop, provided he could get his horse up La Bajada Hill. - -He had bought his horse from a Yankee trader and had been woefully -deceived. One week's journey of from twenty to thirty miles a day had -shown the beast up for a wind-broken wreck. Father Vaillant's mind was -full of material cares as he approached Manuel Lujon's place beyond -Bernalillo. The _rancho_ was like a little town, with all its stables, -corrals, and stake fences. The _casa grande_ was long and low, with -glass windows and bright blue doors, a _portale_ running its full -length, supported by blue posts. Under this _portale_ the adobe wall was -hung with bridles, saddles, great boots and spurs, guns and saddle -blankets, strings of red peppers, fox skins, and the skins of two great -rattlesnakes. - - -When Father Vaillant rode in through the gateway, children came running -from every direction, some with no clothing but a little shirt, and -women with no shawls over their black hair came running after the -children. They all disappeared when Manuel Lujon walked out of the great -house, hat in hand, smiling and hospitable. He was a man of thirty-five, -settled in figure and somewhat full under the chin. He greeted the -priest in the name of God and put out a hand to help him alight, but -Father Vaillant sprang quickly to the ground. - -"God be with you, Manuel, and with your house. But where are those who -are to be married?" - -"The men are all in the field, Padre. There is no hurry. A little wine, -a little bread, coffee, repose--and then the ceremonies." - -"A little wine, very willingly, and bread, too. But not until afterward. -I meant to catch you all at dinner, but I am two hours late because my -horse is bad. Have someone bring in my saddle-bags, and I will put on my -vestments. Send out to the fields for your men, Señor Lujon. A man can -stop work to be married." - -The swarthy host was dazed by this dispatch. "But one moment, Padre. -There are all the children to baptize; why not begin with them, if I -cannot persuade you to wash the dust from your sainted brow and repose a -little." - -"Take me to a place where I can wash and change my clothes, and I will -be ready before you can get them here. No, I tell you, Lujon, the -marriages first, the baptisms afterward; that order is but Christian. I -will baptize the children to-morrow morning, and their parents will at -least have been married over night." - -Father Joseph was conducted to his chamber, and the older boys were sent -running off across the fields to fetch the men. Lujon and his two -daughters began constructing an altar at one end of the _sala_. Two old -women came to scrub the floor, and another brought chairs and stools. - -"My God, but he is ugly, the Padre!" whispered one of these to the -others. "He must be very holy. And did you see the great wart he has on -his chin? My grandmother could take that away for him if she were alive, -poor soul! Somebody ought to tell him about the holy mud at Chimayo. -That mud might dry it up. But there is nobody left now who can take -warts away." - -"No, the times are not so good any more," the other agreed. "And I doubt -if all this marrying will make them any better. Of what use is it to -marry people after they have lived together and had children? and the -man is maybe thinking about another woman, like Pablo. I saw him coming -out of the brush with that oldest girl of Trinidad's, only Sunday -night." - -The reappearance of the priest upon the scene cut short further scandal. -He knelt down before the improvised altar and began his private -devotions. The women tiptoed away. Señor Lujon himself went out toward -the servants' quarters to hurry the candidates for the marriage -sacrament. The women were giggling and snatching up their best shawls. -Some of the men had even washed their hands. The household crowded into -the _sala_, and Father Vaillant married couples with great dispatch. - -"To-morrow morning, the baptisms," he announced. "And the mothers see to -it that the children are clean, and that there are sponsors for all." - -After he had resumed his travelling-clothes, Father Joseph asked his -host at what hour he dined, remarking that he had been fasting since an -early breakfast. - -"We eat when it is ready--a little after sunset, usually. I have had a -young lamb killed for your Reverence." - -Father Joseph kindled with interest. "Ah, and how will it be cooked?" - -Señor Lujon shrugged. "Cooked? Why, they put it in a pot with chili, -and some onions, I suppose." - -"Ah, that is the point. I have had too much stewed mutton. Will you -permit me to go into the kitchen and cook my portion in my own way?" - -Lujon waved his hand. "My house is yours, Padre. Into the kitchen I -never go--too many women. But there it is, and the woman in charge is -named Rosa." - -When the Father entered the kitchen he found a crowd of women discussing -the marriages. They quickly dispersed, leaving old Rosa by her -fire-place, where hung a kettle from which issued the savour of cooking -mutton fat, all too familiar to Father Joseph. He found a half sheep -hanging outside the door, covered with a bloody sack, and asked Rosa to -heat the oven for him, announcing that he meant to roast the hind leg. - -"But Padre, I baked before the marriages. The oven is almost cold. It -will take an hour to heat it, and it is only two hours till supper." - -"Very well. I can cook my roast in an hour." - -"Cook a roast in an hour!" cried the old woman. "Mother of God, Padre, -the blood will not be dried in it!" - -"Not if I can help it!" said Father Joseph fiercely. "Now hurry with the -fire, my good woman." - -When the Padre carved his roast at the supper-table, the serving-girls -stood behind his chair and looked with horror at the delicate stream of -pink juice that followed the knife. Manuel Lujon took a slice for -politeness, but he did not eat it. Father Vaillant had his _gigot_ to -himself. - -All the men and boys sat down at the long table with the host, the women -and children would eat later. Father Joseph and Lujon, at one end, had a -bottle of white Bordeaux between them. It had been brought from Mexico -City on mule-back, Lujon said. They were discussing the road back to -Santa Fé, and when the missionary remarked that he would stop at Santo -Domingo, the host asked him why he did not get a horse there. "I am -afraid you will hardly get back to Santa Fé on your own. The pueblo is -famous for breeding good horses. You might make a trade." - -"No," said Father Vaillant. "Those Indians are of a sullen disposition. -If I were to have dealings with them, they would suspect my motives. If -we are to save their souls, we must make it clear that we want no profit -for ourselves, as I told Father Gallegos in Albuquerque." - -Manuel Lujon laughed and glanced down the table at his men, who were all -showing their white teeth. "You said that to the Padre at Albuquerque? -You have courage. He is a rich man, Padre Gallegos. All the same, I -respect him. I have played poker with him. He is a great gambler and -takes his losses like a man. He stops at nothing, plays like an -American." - -"And I," retorted Father Joseph, "I have not much respect for a priest -who either plays cards or manages to get rich." - -"Then you do not play?" asked Lujon. "I am disappointed. I had hoped we -could have a game after supper. The evenings are dull enough here. You -do not even play dominoes?" - -"Ah, that is another matter!" Father Joseph declared. "A game of -dominoes, there by the fire, with coffee, or some of that excellent -grape brandy you allowed me to taste, that I would find refreshing. And -tell me, Manuelito, where do you get that brandy? It is like a French -liqueur." - -"It is well seasoned. It was made at Bernalillo in my grandfather's -time. They make it there still, but it is not so good now." - -The next morning, after coffee, while the children were being got ready -for baptism, the host took Father Vaillant through his corrals and -stables to show him his stock. He exhibited with peculiar pride two -cream-coloured mules, stalled side by side. With his own hand he led -them out of the stable, in order to display to advantage their handsome -coats,--not bluish white, as with white horses, but a rich, deep ivory, -that in shadow changed to fawn-colour. Their tails were clipped at the -end into the shape of bells. - -"Their names," said Lujon, "are Contento and Angelica, and they are as -good as their names. It seems that God has given them intelligence. When -I talk to them, they look up at me like Christians; they are very -companionable. They are always ridden together and have a great -affection for each other." - -Father Joseph took one by the halter and led it about. "Ah, but they are -rare creatures! I have never seen a mule or horse coloured like a young -fawn before." To his host's astonishment, the wiry little priest sprang -upon Contento's back with the agility of a grasshopper. The mule, too, -was astonished. He shook himself violently, bolted toward the gate of -the barnyard, and at the gate stopped suddenly. Since this did not throw -his rider, he seemed satisfied, trotted back, and stood placidly beside -Angelica. - -"But you are a _caballero_, Father Vaillant!" Lujon exclaimed. "I doubt -if Father Gallegos would have kept his seat--though he is something of a -hunter." - -"The saddle is to be my home in your country, Lujon. What an easy gait -this mule has, and what a narrow back! I notice that especially. For a -man with short legs, like me, it is a punishment to ride eight hours a -day on a wide horse. And this I must do day after day. From here I go to -Santa Fé, and, after a day in conference with the Bishop, I start for -Mora." - -"For Mora?" exclaimed Lujon. "Yes, that is far, and the roads are very -bad. On your mare you will never do it. She will drop dead under you." -While he talked, the Father remained upon the mule's back, stroking him -with his hand. - -"Well, I have no other. God grant that she does not drop somewhere far -from food and water. I can carry very little with me except my vestments -and the sacred vessels." - -The Mexican had been growing more and more thoughtful, as if he were -considering something profound and not altogether cheerful. Suddenly his -brow cleared, and he turned to the priest with a radiant smile, quite -boyish in its simplicity. "Father Vaillant," he burst out in a slightly -oratorical manner, "you have made my house right with Heaven, and you -charge me very little. I will do something very nice for you; I will -give you Contento for a present, and I hope to be particularly -remembered in your prayers." - -Springing to the ground, Father Vaillant threw his arms about his host. -"Manuelito!" he cried, "for this darling mule I think I could almost -pray you into Heaven!" - -The Mexican laughed, too, and warmly returned the embrace. Arm-in-arm -they went in to begin the baptisms. - - -The next morning, when Lujon went to call Father Vaillant for breakfast, -he found him in the barnyard, leading the two mules about and smoothing -their fawn-coloured flanks, but his face was not the cheerful -countenance of yesterday. - -"Manuel," he said at once, "I cannot accept your present. I have thought -upon it over night, and I see that I cannot. The Bishop works as hard as -I do, and his horse is little better than mine. You know he lost -everything on his way out here, in a shipwreck at Galveston,--among the -rest a fine wagon he had had built for travel on these plains. I could -not go about on a mule like this when my Bishop rides a common hack. It -would be inappropriate. I must ride away on my old mare." - -"Yes, Padre?" Manuel looked troubled and somewhat aggrieved. Why should -the Padre spoil everything? It had all been very pleasant yesterday, and -he had felt like a prince of generosity. "I doubt if she will make La -Bajada Hill," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Look my horses over and -take the one that suits you. They are all better than yours." - -"No, no," said Father Vaillant decidedly. "Having seen these mules, I -want nothing else. They are the colour of pearls, really! I will raise -the price of marriages until I can buy this pair from you. A missionary -must depend upon his mount for companionship in his lonely life. I want -a mule that can look at me like a Christian, as you said of these." - -Señor Lujon sighed and looked about his barnyard as if he were trying -to find some escape from this situation. - -Father Joseph turned to him with vehemence. "If I were a rich -_ranchero_, like you, Manuel, I would do a splendid thing; I would -furnish the two mounts that are to carry the word of God about this -heathen country, and then I would say to myself: _There go my Bishop and -my Vicario, on my beautiful cream-coloured mules_." - -"So be it, Padre," said Lujon with a mournful smile. "But I ought to get -a good many prayers. On my whole estate there is nothing I prize like -those two. True, they might pine if they were parted for long. They have -never been separated, and they have a great affection for each other. -Mules, as you know, have strong affections. It is hard for me to give -them up." - -"You will be all the happier for that, Manuelito," Father Joseph cried -heartily. "Every time you think of these mules, you will feel pride in -your good deed." - -Soon after breakfast Father Vaillant departed, riding Contento, with -Angelica trotting submissively behind, and from his gate Señor Lujon -watched them disconsolately until they disappeared. He felt he had been -worried out of his mules, and yet he bore no resentment. He did not -doubt Father Joseph's devotedness, nor his singleness of purpose. After -all, a Bishop was a Bishop, and a Vicar was a Vicar, and it was not to -their discredit that they worked like a pair of common parish priests. -He believed he would be proud of the fact that they rode Contento and -Angelica. Father Vaillant had forced his hand, but he was rather glad of -it. - - - - -2 - -THE LONELY ROAD TO MORA - - -THE Bishop and his Vicar were riding through the rain in the Truchas -mountains. The heavy, lead-coloured drops were driven slantingly through -the air by an icy wind from the peak. These raindrops, Father Latour -kept thinking, were the shape of tadpoles, and they broke against his -nose and cheeks, exploding with a splash, as if they were hollow and -full of air. The priests were riding across high mountain meadows, which -in a few weeks would be green, though just now they were slate-coloured. -On every side lay ridges covered with blue-green fir trees; above them -rose the horny backbones of mountains. The sky was very low; purplish -lead-coloured clouds let down curtains of mist into the valleys between -the pine ridges. There was not a glimmer of white light in the dark -vapours working overhead--rather, they took on the cold green of the -evergreens. Even the white mules, their coats wet and matted into tufts, -had turned a slaty hue, and the faces of the two priests were purple and -spotted in that singular light. - -Father Latour rode first, sitting straight upon his mule, with his chin -lowered just enough to keep the drive of rain out of his eyes. Father -Vaillant followed, unable to see much,--in weather like this his glasses -were of no use, and he had taken them off. He crouched down in the -saddle, his shoulders well over Contento's neck. Father Joseph's sister, -Philomène, who was Mother Superior of a convent in her native town in -the Puy-de-Dôm, often tried to picture her brother and Bishop Latour on -these long missionary journeys of which he wrote her; she imagined the -scene and saw the two priests moving through it in their cassocks, -bare-headed, like the pictures of St. Francis Xavier with which she was -familiar. The reality was less picturesque,--but for all that, no one -could have mistaken these two men for hunters or traders. They wore -clerical collars about their necks instead of neckerchiefs, and on the -breast of his buckskin jacket the Bishop's silver cross hung by a silver -chain. - -They were on their way to Mora, the third day out, and they did not know -just how far they had still to go. Since morning they had not met a -traveller or seen a human habitation. They believed they were on the -right trail, for they had seen no other. The first night of their -journey they had spent at Santa Cruz, lying in the warm, wide valley of -the Rio Grande, where the fields and gardens were already softly -coloured with early spring. But since they had left the Española -country behind them, they had contended first with wind and sand-storms, -and now with cold. The Bishop was going to Mora to assist the Padre -there in disposing of a crowd of refugees who filled his house. A new -settlement in the Conejos valley had lately been raided by Indians; many -of the inhabitants were killed, and the survivors, who were originally -from Mora, had managed to get back there, utterly destitute. - -Before the travellers had crossed the mountain meadows, the rain turned -to sleet. Their wet buckskins quickly froze, and the rattle of icy -flakes struck them and bounded off. The prospect of a night in the open -was not cheering. It was too wet to kindle a fire, their blankets would -become soaked on the ground. As they were descending the mountain on the -Mora side, the gray daylight seemed already beginning to fail, though it -was only four o'clock. Father Latour turned in his saddle and spoke over -his shoulder. - -"The mules are certainly very tired, Joseph. They ought to be fed." - -"Push on," said Father Vaillant. "We will come to shelter of some kind -before night sets in." The Vicar had been praying steadfastly while they -crossed the meadows, and he felt confident that St. Joseph would not -turn a deaf ear. Before the hour was done they did indeed come upon a -wretched adobe house, so poor and mean that they might not have seen it -had it not lain close beside the trail, on the edge of a steep ravine. -The stable looked more habitable than the house, and the priests thought -perhaps they could spend the night in it. - -As they rode up to the door, a man came out, bare-headed, and they saw -to their surprise that he was not a Mexican, but an American, of a very -unprepossessing type. He spoke to them in some drawling dialect they -could scarcely understand and asked if they wanted to stay the night. -During the few words they exchanged with him Father Latour felt a -growing reluctance to remain even for a few hours under the roof of this -ugly, evil-looking fellow. He was tall, gaunt and ill-formed, with a -snake-like neck, terminating in a small, bony head. Under his -close-clipped hair this repellent head showed a number of thick ridges, -as if the skull joinings were overgrown by layers of superfluous bone. -With its small, rudimentary ears, this head had a positively malignant -look. The man seemed not more than half human, but he was the only -householder on the lonely road to Mora. - -The priests dismounted and asked him whether he could put their mules -under shelter and give them grain feed. - -"As soon as I git my coat on I will. You kin come in." - -They followed him into a room where a piñon fire blazed in the corner, -and went toward it to warm their stiffened hands. Their host made an -angry, snarling sound in the direction of the partition, and a woman -came out of the next room. She was a Mexican. - -Father Latour and Father Vaillant addressed her courteously in Spanish, -greeting her in the name of the Holy Mother, as was customary. She did -not open her lips, but stared at them blankly for a moment, then dropped -her eyes and cowered as if she were terribly frightened. The priests -looked at each other; it struck them both that this man had been abusing -her in some way. Suddenly he turned on her. - -"Clear off them cheers fur the strangers. They won't eat ye, if they air -priests." - -She began distractedly snatching rags and wet socks and dirty clothes -from the chairs. Her hands were shaking so that she dropped things. She -was not old, she might have been very young, but she was probably -half-witted. There was nothing in her face but blankness and fear. - -Her husband put on his coat and boots, went to the door, and stopped -with his hand on the latch, throwing over his shoulder a crafty, hateful -glance at the bewildered woman. - -"Here, you! Come right along, I'll need ye!" - -She took her black shawl from a peg and followed him. Just at the door -she turned and caught the eyes of the visitors, who were looking after -her in compassion and perplexity. Instantly that stupid face became -intense, prophetic, full of awful meaning. With her finger she pointed -them away, away!--two quick thrusts into the air. Then, with a look of -horror beyond anything language could convey, she threw back her head -and drew the edge of her palm quickly across her distended throat--and -vanished. The doorway was empty; the two priests stood staring at it, -speechless. That flash of electric passion had been so swift, the -warning it communicated so vivid and definite, that they were struck -dumb. - -Father Joseph was the first to find his tongue. "There is no doubt of -her meaning. Your pistol is loaded, Jean?" - -"Yes, but I neglected to keep it dry. No matter." - -They hurried out of the house. It was still light enough to see the -stable through the grey drive of rain, and they went toward it. - -"Señor American," the Bishop called, "will you be good enough to bring -out our mules?" - -The man came out of the stable. "What do you want?" - -"Our mules. We have changed our mind. We will push on to Mora. And here -is a dollar for your trouble." - -The man took a threatening attitude. As he looked from one to the other -his head played from side to side exactly like a snake's. "What's the -matter? My house ain't good enough for ye?" - -"No explanation is necessary. Go into the barn and get the mules, Father -Joseph." - -"You dare go into my stable, you----priest!" - -The Bishop drew his pistol. "No profanity, Señor. We want nothing from -you but to get away from your uncivil tongue. Stand where you are." - -The man was unarmed. Father Joseph came out with the mules, which had -not been unsaddled. The poor things were each munching a mouthful, but -they needed no urging to be gone; they did not like this place. The -moment they felt their riders on their backs they trotted quickly along -the road, which dropped immediately into the arroyo. While they were -descending, Father Joseph remarked that the man would certainly have a -gun in the house, and that he had no wish to be shot in the back. - -"Nor I. But it is growing too dark for that, unless he should follow us -on horseback," said the Bishop. "Were there horses in the stable?" - -"Only a burro." Father Vaillant was relying upon the protection of St. -Joseph, whose office he had fervently said that morning. The warning -given them by that poor woman, with such scant opportunity, seemed -evidence that some protecting power was mindful of them. - -By the time they had ascended the far side of the arroyo, night had -closed down and the rain was pouring harder than ever. - -"I am by no means sure that we can keep in the road," said the Bishop. -"But at least I am sure we are not being followed. We must trust to -these intelligent beasts. Poor woman! He will suspect her and abuse her, -I am afraid." He kept seeing her in the darkness as he rode on, her face -in the fire-light, and her terrible pantomime. - -They reached the town of Mora a little after midnight. The Padre's house -was full of refugees, and two of them were put out of a bed in order -that the Bishop and his Vicar could get into it. - -In the morning a boy came from the stable and reported that he had found -a crazy woman lying in the straw, and that she begged to see the two -Padres who owned the white mules. She was brought in, her clothing cut -to rags, her legs and face and even her hair so plastered with mud that -the priests could scarcely recognize the woman who had saved their lives -the night before. - -She said she had never gone back to the house at all. When the two -priests rode away her husband had run to the house to get his gun, and -she had plunged down a wash-out behind the stable into the arroyo, and -had been on the way to Mora all night. She had supposed he would -overtake her and kill her, but he had not. She reached the settlement -before day-break, and crept into the stable to warm herself among the -animals and wait until the household was awake. Kneeling before the -Bishop she began to relate such horrible things that he stopped her and -turned to the native priest. - -"This is a case for the civil authorities. Is there a magistrate here?" - -There was no magistrate, but there was a retired fur trapper who acted -as notary and could take evidence. He was sent for, and in the interval -Father Latour instructed the refugee women from Conejos to bathe this -poor creature and put decent clothes on her, and to care for the cuts -and scratches on her legs. - -An hour later the woman, whose name was Magdalena, calmed by food and -kindness, was ready to tell her story. The notary had brought along his -friend, St. Vrain, a Canadian trapper who understood Spanish better than -he. The woman was known to St. Vrain, moreover, who confirmed her -statement that she was born Magdalena Valdez, at Los Ranchos de Taos, -and that she was twenty-four years old. Her husband, Buck Scales, had -drifted into Taos with a party of hunters from somewhere in Wyoming. All -white men knew him for a dog and a degenerate--but to Mexican girls, -marriage with an American meant coming up in the world. She had married -him six years ago, and had been living with him ever since in that -wretched house on the Mora trail. During that time he had robbed and -murdered four travellers who had stopped there for the night. They were -all strangers, not known in the country. She had forgot their names, but -one was a German boy who spoke very little Spanish and little English; -a nice boy with blue eyes, and she had grieved for him more than for the -others. They were all buried in the sandy soil behind the stable. She -was always afraid their bodies might wash out in a storm. Their horses -Buck had ridden off by night and sold to Indians somewhere in the north. -Magdalena had borne three children since her marriage, and her husband -had killed each of them a few days after birth, by ways so horrible that -she could not relate it. After he killed the first baby, she ran away -from him, back to her parents at Ranchos. He came after her and made her -go home with him by threatening harm to the old people. She was afraid -to go anywhere for help, but twice before she had managed to warn -travellers away, when her husband happened to be out of the house. This -time she had found courage because, when she looked into the faces of -these two Padres, she knew they were good men, and she thought if she -ran after them they could save her. She could not bear any more killing. -She asked nothing better than to die herself, if only she could hide -near a church and a priest for a while, to make her soul right with God. - -St. Vrain and his friend got together a search-party at once. They rode -out to Scales's place and found the remains of four men buried under the -corral behind the stable, as the woman had said. Scales himself they -captured on the road from Taos, where he had gone to look for his wife. -They brought him back to Mora, but St. Vrain rode on to Taos to fetch a -magistrate. - -There was no _calabozo_ in Mora, so Scales was put into an empty stable, -under guard. This stable was soon surrounded by a crowd of people, who -loitered to hear the blood-curdling threats the prisoner shouted against -his wife. Magdalena was kept in the Padre's house, where she lay on a -mat in the corner, begging Father Latour to take her back to Santa Fé, -so that her husband could not get at her. Though Scales was bound, the -Bishop felt alarmed for her safety. He and the American notary, who had -a pistol of the new revolver model, sat in the _sala_ and kept watch -over her all night. - -In the morning the magistrate and his party arrived from Taos. The -notary told him the facts of the case in the plaza, where everyone could -hear. The Bishop inquired whether there was any place for Magdalena in -Taos, as she could not stay on here in such a state of terror. - -A man dressed in buckskin hunting-clothes stepped out of the crowd and -asked to see Magdalena. Father Latour conducted him into the room where -she lay on her mat. The stranger went up to her, removing his hat. He -bent down and put his hand on her shoulder. Though he was clearly an -American, he spoke Spanish in the native manner. - -"Magdalena, don't you remember me?" - -She looked up at him as out of a dark well; something became alive in -her deep, haunted eyes. She caught with both hands at his fringed -buckskin knees. - -"Christobal!" she wailed. "Oh, Christobal!" - -"I'll take you home with me, Magdalena, and you can stay with my wife. -You wouldn't be afraid in my house, would you?" - -"No, no, Christobal, I would not be afraid with you. I am not a wicked -woman." - -He smoothed her hair. "You're a good girl, Magdalena--always were. It -will be all right. Just leave things to me." - -Then he turned to the Bishop. "Señor Vicario, she can come to me. I -live near Taos. My wife is a native woman, and she'll be good to her. -That varmint won't come about my place, even if he breaks jail. He knows -me. My name is Carson." - -Father Latour had looked forward to meeting the scout. He had supposed -him to be a very large man, of powerful body and commanding presence. -This Carson was not so tall as the Bishop himself, was very slight in -frame, modest in manner, and he spoke English with a soft Southern -drawl. His face was both thoughtful and alert; anxiety had drawn a -permanent ridge between his blue eyes. Under his blond moustache his -mouth had a singular refinement. The lips were full and delicately -modelled. There was something curiously unconscious about his mouth, -reflective, a little melancholy,--and something that suggested a -capacity for tenderness. The Bishop felt a quick glow of pleasure in -looking at the man. As he stood there in his buckskin clothes one felt -in him standards, loyalties, a code which is not easily put into words -but which is instantly felt when two men who live by it come together by -chance. He took the scout's hand. "I have long wanted to meet Kit -Carson," he said, "even before I came to New Mexico. I have been hoping -you would pay me a visit at Santa Fé." - -The other smiled. "I'm right shy, sir, and I'm always afraid of being -disappointed. But I guess it will be all right from now on." - -This was the beginning of a long friendship. - -On their ride back to Carson's ranch, Magdalena was put in Father -Vaillant's care, and the Bishop and the scout rode together. Carson said -he had become a Catholic merely as a matter of form, as Americans -usually did when they married a Mexican girl. His wife was a good woman -and very devout; but religion had seemed to him pretty much a woman's -affair until his last trip to California. He had been sick out there, -and the Fathers at one of the missions took care of him. "I began to see -things different, and thought I might some day be a Catholic in earnest. -I was brought up to think priests were rascals, and that the nuns were -bad women,--all the stuff they talk back in Missouri. A good many of the -native priests here bear out that story. Our Padre Martinez at Taos is -an old scapegrace, if ever there was one; he's got children and -grandchildren in almost every settlement around here. And Padre Lucero -at Arroyo Hondo is a miser, takes everything a poor man's got to give -him a Christian burial." - -The Bishop discussed the needs of his people at length with Carson. He -felt great confidence in his judgment. The two men were about the same -age, both a little over forty, and both had been sobered and sharpened -by wide experience. Carson had been guide in world-renowned -explorations, but he was still almost as poor as in the days when he was -a beaver trapper. He lived in a little adobe house with his Mexican -wife. The great country of desert and mountain ranges between Santa Fé -and the Pacific coast was not yet mapped or charted; the most reliable -map of it was in Kit Carson's brain. This Missourian, whose eye was so -quick to read a landscape or a human face, could not read a printed -page. He could at that time barely write his own name. Yet one felt in -him a quick and discriminating intelligence. That he was illiterate was -an accident; he had got ahead of books, gone where the printing-press -could not follow him. Out of the hardships of his boyhood--from fourteen -to twenty picking up a bare living as cook or mule-driver for wagon -trains, often in the service of brutal and desperate characters--he had -preserved a clean sense of honour and a compassionate heart. In talking -to the Bishop of poor Magdalena he said sadly: "I used to see her in -Taos when she was such a pretty girl. Ain't it a pity?" - - -The degenerate murderer, Buck Scales, was hanged after a short trial. -Early in April the Bishop left Santa Fé on horseback and rode to St. -Louis, on his way to attend the Provincial Council at Baltimore. When he -returned in September, he brought back with him five courageous nuns, -Sisters of Loretto, to found a school for girls in letterless Santa Fé. -He sent at once for Magdalena and took her into the service of the -Sisters. She became housekeeper and manager of the Sisters' kitchen. She -was devoted to the nuns, and so happy in the service of the Church that -when the Bishop visited the school he used to enter by the -kitchen-garden in order to see her serene and handsome face. For she -became beautiful, as Carson said she had been as a girl. After the -blight of her horrible youth was over, she seemed to bloom again in the -household of God. - - - - -BOOK THREE - -_THE MASS AT ÁCOMA_ - - - - -1 - -THE WOODEN PARROT - - -DURING the first year after his arrival in Santa Fé, the Bishop was -actually in his diocese only about four months. Six months of that first -year were consumed in attending the Plenary Council at Baltimore, to -which he had been summoned. He went on horseback over the Santa Fé -trail to St. Louis, nearly a thousand miles, then by steamboat to -Pittsburgh, across the mountains to Cumberland, and on to Washington by -the new railroad. The return journey was even slower, as he had with him -the five nuns who came to found the school of Our Lady of Light. He -reached Santa Fé late in September. - -So far, Bishop Latour had been mainly employed on business that took him -far away from his Vicarate. His great diocese was still an unimaginable -mystery to him. He was eager to be abroad in it, to know his people; to -escape for a little from the cares of building and founding, and to go -westward among the old isolated Indian missions; Santo Domingo, breeder -of horses; Isleta, whitened with gypsum; Laguna, of wide pastures; and -finally, cloud-set Ácoma. - -In the golden October weather the Bishop, with his blankets and -coffee-pot, attended by Jacinto, a young Indian from the Pecos pueblo, -whom he employed as guide, set off to visit the Indian missions in the -west. He spent a night and a day at Albuquerque, with the genial and -popular Padre Gallegos. After Santa Fé, Albuquerque was the most -important parish in the diocese; the priest belonged to an influential -Mexican family, and he and the _rancheros_ had run their church to suit -themselves, making a very gay affair of it. Though Padre Gallegos was -ten years older than the Bishop, he would still dance the fandango five -nights running, as if he could never have enough of it. He had many -friends in the American colony, with whom he played poker and went -hunting, when he was not dancing with the Mexicans. His cellar was well -stocked with wines from El Paso del Norte, whisky from Taos, and grape -brandy from Bernalillo. He was genuinely hospitable, and the gambler -down on his luck, the soldier sobering up, were always welcome at his -table. The Padre was adored by a rich Mexican widow, who was hostess at -his supper parties, engaged his servants for him, made lace for the -altar and napery for his table. Every Sunday her carriage, the only -closed one in Albuquerque, waited in the plaza after Mass, and when the -priest had put off his vestments, he came out and was driven away to the -lady's hacienda for dinner. - -The Bishop and Father Vaillant had thoroughly examined the case of -Father Gallegos, and meant to end this scandalous state of things well -before Christmas. But on this visit Father Latour exhibited neither -astonishment nor displeasure at anything, and Padre Gallegos was cordial -and most ceremoniously polite. When the Bishop permitted himself to -express some surprise that there was not a confirmation class awaiting -him, the Padre explained smoothly that it was his custom to confirm -infants at their baptism. - -"It is all the same in a Christian community like ours. We know they -will receive religious instruction as they grow up, so we make good -Catholics of them in the beginning. Why not?" - -The Padre was uneasy lest the Bishop should require his attendance on -this trip out among the missions. He had no liking for scanty food and a -bed on the rocks. So, though he had been dancing only a few nights -before, he received his Superior with one foot bandaged up in an Indian -moccasin, and complained of a severe attack of gout. Asked when he had -last celebrated Mass at Ácoma, he made no direct reply. It used to be -his custom, he said, to go there in Passion Week, but the Ácoma Indians -were unreclaimed heathen at heart, and had no wish to be bothered with -the Mass. The last time he went out there, he was unable to get into the -church at all. The Indians pretended they had not the key; that the -Governor had it, and that he had gone on "Indian business" up into the -Cebolleta mountains. - -The Bishop did not wish Padre Gallegos's company upon his journey, was -very glad not to have the embarrassment of refusing it, and he rode away -from Albuquerque after polite farewells. Yet, he reflected, there was -something very engaging about Gallegos as a man. As a priest, he was -impossible; he was too self-satisfied and popular ever to change his -ways, and he certainly could not change his face. He did not look quite -like a professional gambler, but something smooth and twinkling in his -countenance suggested an underhanded mode of life. There was but one -course: to suspend the man from the exercise of all priestly functions, -and bid the smaller native priests take warning. - -Father Vaillant had told the Bishop that he must by all means stop a -night at Isleta, as he would like the priest there--Padre Jesus de Baca, -an old white-haired man, almost blind, who had been at Isleta many years -and had won the confidence and affection of his Indians. - -When he approached this pueblo of Isleta, gleaming white across a low -plain of grey sand, Father Latour's spirits rose. It was beautiful, that -warm, rich whiteness of the church and the clustered town, shaded by a -few bright acacia trees, with their intense blue-green like the colour -of old paper window-blinds. That tree always awakened pleasant memories, -recalling a garden in the south of France where he used to visit young -cousins. As he rode up to the church, the old priest came out to meet -him, and after his salutation stood looking at Father Latour, shading -his failing eyes with his hand. - -"And can this be my Bishop? So young a man?" he exclaimed. - -They went into the priest's house by way of a garden, walled in behind -the church. This enclosure was full of domesticated cactus plants, of -many varieties and great size (it seemed the Padre loved them), and -among these hung wicker cages made of willow twigs, full of parrots. -There were even parrots hopping about the sanded paths,--with one wing -clipped to keep them at home. Father Jesus explained that parrot -feathers were much prized by his Indians as ornaments for their -ceremonial robes, and he had long ago found he could please his -parishioners by raising the birds. - -The priest's house was white within and without, like all the Isleta -houses, and was almost as bare as an Indian dwelling. The old man was -poor, and too soft-hearted to press the pueblo people for pesos. An -Indian girl cooked his beans and cornmeal mush for him, he required -little else. The girl was not very skilful, he said, but she was clean -about her cooking. When the Bishop remarked that everything in this -pueblo, even the streets, seemed clean, the Padre told him that near -Isleta there was a hill of some white mineral, which the Indians ground -up and used as whitewash. They had done this from time immemorial, and -the village had always been noted for its whiteness. A little talk with -Father Jesus revealed that he was simple almost to childishness, and -very superstitious. But there was a quality of golden goodness about -him. His right eye was overgrown by a cataract, and he kept his head -tilted as if he were trying to see around it. All his movements were to -the left, as if he were reaching or walking about some obstacle in his -path. - -After coming to the house by way of a garden full of parrots, Father -Latour was amused to find that the sole ornament in the Padre's poor, -bare little _sala_ was a wooden parrot, perched in a hoop and hung from -one of the roof-logs. While Father Jesus was instructing his Indian girl -in the kitchen, the Bishop took this carving down from its perch to -examine it. It was cut from a single stick of wood, exactly the size of -a living bird, body and tail rigid and straight, the head a little -turned. The wings and tail and neck feathers were just indicated by the -tool, and thinly painted. He was surprised to feel how light it was; the -surface had the whiteness and velvety smoothness of very old wood. -Though scarcely carved at all, merely smoothed into shape, it was -strangely lifelike; a wooden pattern of parrots, as it were. - -The Padre smiled when he found the Bishop with the bird in his hand. - -"I see you have found my treasure! That, your Grace, is probably the -oldest thing in the pueblo--older than the pueblo itself." - -The parrot, Father Jesus said, had always been the bird of wonder and -desire to the pueblo Indians. In ancient times its feathers were more -valued than wampum and turquoises. Even before the Spaniards came, the -pueblos of northern New Mexico used to send explorers along the -dangerous and difficult trade routes down into tropical Mexico to bring -back upon their bodies a cargo of parrot feathers. To purchase these the -trader carried pouches full of turquoises from the Cerrillos hills near -Santa Fé. When, very rarely, a trader succeeded in bringing back a live -bird to his people, it was paid divine honours, and its death threw the -whole village into the deepest gloom. Even the bones were piously -preserved. There was in Isleta a parrot skull of great antiquity. His -wooden bird he had bought from an old man who was much indebted to him, -and who was about to die without descendants. Father Jesus had had his -eye upon the bird for years. The Indian told him that his ancestors, -generations ago, had brought it with them from the mother pueblo. The -priest fondly believed that it was a portrait, done from life, of one of -those rare birds that in ancient times were carried up alive, all the -long trail from the tropics. - -Father Jesus gave a good report of the Indians at Laguna and Ácoma. He -used to go to those pueblos to hold services when he was younger, and -had always found them friendly. - -"At Ácoma," he said, "you can see something very holy. They have there -a portrait of St. Joseph, sent to them by one of the Kings of Spain, -long ago, and it has worked many miracles. If the season is dry, the -Ácoma people take the picture down to their farms at Acomita, and it -never fails to produce rain. They have rain when none falls in all the -country, and they have crops when the Laguna Indians have none." - - - - -2 - -JACINTO - - -TAKING leave of Isleta and its priest early in the morning, Father -Latour and his guide rode all day through the dry desert plain west of -Albuquerque. It was like a country of dry ashes; no juniper, no rabbit -brush, nothing but thickets of withered, dead-looking cactus, and -patches of wild pumpkin--the only vegetation that had any vitality. It -is a vine, remarkable for its tendency, not to spread and ramble, but to -mass and mount. Its long, sharp, arrow-shaped leaves, frosted over with -prickly silver, are thrust upward and crowded together; the whole rigid, -up-thrust matted clump looks less like a plant than like a great colony -of grey-green lizards, moving and suddenly arrested by fear. - -As the morning wore on they had to make their way through a sand-storm -which quite obscured the sun. Jacinto knew the country well, having -crossed it often to go to the religious dances at Laguna, but he rode -with his head low and a purple handkerchief tied over his mouth. Coming -from a pueblo among woods and water, he had a poor opinion of this -plain. At noon he alighted and collected enough greasewood to boil the -Bishop's coffee. They knelt on either side of the fire, the sand curling -about them so that the bread became gritty as they ate it. - -The sun set red in an atmosphere murky with sand. The travellers made a -dry camp and rolled themselves in their blankets. All night a cold wind -blew over them. Father Latour was so stiff that he arose long before -day-break. The dawn came at last, fair and clear, and they made an early -start. - -About the middle of that afternoon Jacinto pointed out Laguna in the -distance, lying, apparently, in the midst of bright yellow waves of high -sand dunes--yellow as ochre. As they approached, Father Latour found -these were petrified sand dunes; long waves of soft, gritty yellow rock, -shining and bare except for a few lines of dark juniper that grew out of -the weather cracks,--little trees, and very, very old. At the foot of -this sweep of rock waves was the blue lake, a stone basin full of water, -from which the pueblo took its name. - -The kindly Padre at Isleta had sent his cook's brother off on foot to -warn the Laguna people that the new High Priest was coming, and that he -was a good man and did not want money. They were prepared, accordingly; -the church was clean and the doors were open; a small white church, -painted above and about the altar with gods of wind and rain and -thunder, sun and moon, linked together in a geometrical design of -crimson and blue and dark green, so that the end of the church seemed to -be hung with tapestry. It recalled to Father Latour the interior of a -Persian chieftain's tent he had seen in a textile exhibit at Lyons. -Whether this decoration had been done by Spanish missionaries or by -Indian converts, he was unable to find out. - -The Governor told him that his people would come to Mass in the morning, -and that there were a number of children to be baptized. He offered the -Bishop the sacristy for the night, but there was a damp, earthy smell -about that chamber, and Father Latour had already made up his mind that -he would like to sleep on the rock dunes, under the junipers. - -Jacinto got firewood and good water from the Lagunas, and they made -their camp in a pleasant spot on the rocks north of the village. As the -sun dropped low, the light brought the white church and the yellow adobe -houses up into relief from the flat ledges. Behind their camp, not far -away, lay a group of great mesas. The Bishop asked Jacinto if he knew -the name of the one nearest them. - -"No, I not know any name," he shook his head. "I know Indian name," he -added, as if, for once, he were thinking aloud. - -"And what is the Indian name?" - -"The Laguna Indians call Snow-Bird mountain." He spoke somewhat -unwillingly. - -"That is very nice," said the Bishop musingly. "Yes, that is a pretty -name." - -"Oh, Indians have nice names too!" Jacinto replied quickly, with a curl -of the lip. Then, as if he felt he had taken out on the Bishop a -reproach not deserved, he said in a moment: "The Laguna people think it -very funny for a big priest to be a young man. The Governor say, how can -I call him Padre when he is younger than my sons?" - -There was a note of pride in Jacinto's voice very flattering to the -Bishop. He had noticed how kind the Indian voice could be when it was -kind at all; a slight inflection made one feel that one had received a -great compliment. - -"I am not very young in heart, Jacinto. How old are you, my boy?" - -"Twenty-six." - -"Have you a son?" - -"One. Baby. Not very long born." - -Jacinto usually dropped the article in speaking Spanish, just as he did -in speaking English, though the Bishop had noticed that when he did give -a noun its article, he used the right one. The customary omission, -therefore, seemed to be a matter of taste, not ignorance. In the Indian -conception of language, such attachments were superfluous and -unpleasing, perhaps. - -They relapsed into the silence which was their usual form of -intercourse. The Bishop sat drinking his coffee slowly out of the tin -cup, keeping the pot near the embers. The sun had set now, the yellow -rocks were turning grey, down in the pueblo the light of the cook fires -made red patches of the glassless windows, and the smell of piñon smoke -came softly through the still air. The whole western sky was the colour -of golden ashes, with here and there a flush of red on the lip of a -little cloud. High above the horizon the evening-star flickered like a -lamp just lit, and close beside it was another star of constant light, -much smaller. - -Jacinto threw away the end of his cornhusk cigarette and again spoke -without being addressed. - -"The ev-en-ing-star," he said in English, slowly and somewhat -sententiously, then relapsed into Spanish. "You see the little star -beside, Padre? Indians call him the guide." - -The two companions sat, each thinking his own thoughts as night closed -in about them; a blue night set with stars, the bulk of the solitary -mesas cutting into the firmament. The Bishop seldom questioned Jacinto -about his thoughts or beliefs. He didn't think it polite, and he -believed it to be useless. There was no way in which he could transfer -his own memories of European civilization into the Indian mind, and he -was quite willing to believe that behind Jacinto there was a long -tradition, a story of experience, which no language could translate to -him. A chill came with the darkness. Father Latour put on his old -fur-lined cloak, and Jacinto, loosening the blanket tied about his -loins, drew it up over his head and shoulders. - -"Many stars," he said presently. "What you think about the stars, -Padre?" - -"The wise men tell us they are worlds, like ours, Jacinto." - -The end of the Indian's cigarette grew bright and then dull again before -he spoke. "I think not," he said in the tone of one who has considered a -proposition fairly and rejected it. "I think they are leaders--great -spirits." - -"Perhaps they are," said the Bishop with a sigh. "Whatever they are, -they are great. Let us say _Our Father_, and go to sleep, my boy." - -Kneeling on either side of the embers they repeated the prayer together -and then rolled up in their blankets. The Bishop went to sleep thinking -with satisfaction that he was beginning to have some sort of human -companionship with his Indian boy. One called the young Indians "boys," -perhaps because there was something youthful and elastic in their -bodies. Certainly about their behaviour there was nothing boyish in the -American sense, nor even in the European sense. Jacinto was never, by -any chance, naïf; he was never taken by surprise. One felt that his -training, whatever it had been, had prepared him to meet any situation -which might confront him. He was as much at home in the Bishop's study -as in his own pueblo--and he was never too much at home anywhere. Father -Latour felt he had gone a good way toward gaining his guide's friendship, -though he did not know how. - -The truth was, Jacinto liked the Bishop's way of meeting people; thought -he had the right tone with Padre Gallegos, the right tone with Padre -Jesus, and that he had good manners with the Indians. In his experience, -white people, when they addressed Indians, always put on a false face. -There were many kinds of false faces; Father Vaillant's, for example, -was kindly but too vehement. The Bishop put on none at all. He stood -straight and turned to the Governor of Laguna, and his face underwent no -change. Jacinto thought this remarkable. - - - - -3 - -THE ROCK - - -AFTER early Mass the next morning Father Latour and his guide rode off -across the low plain that lies between Laguna and Ácoma. In all his -travels the Bishop had seen no country like this. From the flat red sea -of sand rose great rock mesas, generally Gothic in outline, resembling -vast cathedrals. They were not crowded together in disorder, but placed -in wide spaces, long vistas between. This plain might once have been an -enormous city, all the smaller quarters destroyed by time, only the -public buildings left,--piles of architecture that were like mountains. -The sandy soil of the plain had a light sprinkling of junipers, and was -splotched with masses of blooming rabbit brush,--that olive-coloured -plant that grows in high waves like a tossing sea, at this season -covered with a thatch of bloom, yellow as gorse, or orange like -marigolds. - -This mesa plain had an appearance of great antiquity, and of -incompleteness; as if, with all the materials for world-making -assembled, the Creator had desisted, gone away and left everything on -the point of being brought together, on the eve of being arranged into -mountain, plain, plateau. The country was still waiting to be made into -a landscape. - -Ever afterward the Bishop remembered his first ride to Ácoma as his -introduction to the mesa country. One thing which struck him at once was -that every mesa was duplicated by a cloud mesa, like a reflection, which -lay motionless above it or moved slowly up from behind it. These cloud -formations seemed to be always there, however hot and blue the sky. -Sometimes they were flat terraces, ledges of vapour; sometimes they were -dome-shaped, or fantastic, like the tops of silvery pagodas, rising one -above another, as if an oriental city lay directly behind the rock. The -great tables of granite set down in an empty plain were inconceivable -without their attendant clouds, which were a part of them, as the smoke -is part of the censer, or the foam of the wave. - -Coming along the Santa Fé trail, in the vast plains of Kansas, Father -Latour had found the sky more a desert than the land; a hard, empty -blue, very monotonous to the eyes of a Frenchman. But west of the Pecos -all that changed; here there was always activity overhead, clouds -forming and moving all day long. Whether they were dark and full of -violence, or soft and white with luxurious idleness, they powerfully -affected the world beneath them. The desert, the mountains and mesas, -were continually re-formed and re-coloured by the cloud shadows. The -whole country seemed fluid to the eye under this constant change of -accent, this ever-varying distribution of light. - -Jacinto interrupted these reflections by an exclamation. - -"Ácoma!" He stopped his mule. - -The Bishop, following with his eye the straight, pointing Indian hand, -saw, far away, two great mesas. They were almost square in shape, and at -this distance seemed close together, though they were really some miles -apart. - -"The far one"--his guide still pointed. - -The Bishop's eyes were not so sharp as Jacinto's, but now, looking down -upon the top of the farther mesa from the high land on which they -halted, he saw a flat white outline on the grey surface--a white square -made up of squares. That, his guide said, was the pueblo of Ácoma. - -Riding on, they presently drew rein under the Enchanted Mesa, and -Jacinto told him that on this, too, there had once been a village, but -the stairway which had been the only access to it was broken off by a -great storm many centuries ago, and its people had perished up there -from hunger. - -But how, the Bishop asked him, did men first think of living on the top -of naked rocks like these, hundreds of feet in the air, without soil or -water? - -Jacinto shrugged. "A man can do whole lot when they hunt him day and -night like an animal. Navajos on the north, Apaches on the south; the -Ácoma run up a rock to be safe." - -All this plain, the Bishop gathered, had once been the scene of a -periodic man-hunt; these Indians, born in fear and dying by violence for -generations, had at last taken this leap away from the earth, and on -that rock had found the hope of all suffering and tormented -creatures--safety. They came down to the plain to hunt and to grow their -crops, but there was always a place to go back to. If a band of Navajos -were on the Ácoma's trail, there was still one hope; if he could reach -his rock--Sanctuary! On the winding stone stairway up the cliff, a -handful of men could keep off a multitude. The rock of Ácoma had never -been taken by a foe but once,--by Spaniards in armour. It was very -different from a mountain fastness; more lonely, more stark and grim, -more appealing to the imagination. The rock, when one came to think of -it, was the utmost expression of human need; even mere feeling yearned -for it; it was the highest comparison of loyalty in love and friendship. -Christ Himself had used that comparison for the disciple to whom He gave -the keys of His Church. And the Hebrews of the Old Testament, always -being carried captive into foreign lands,--their rock was an idea of -God, the only thing their conquerors could not take from them. - -Already the Bishop had observed in Indian life a strange literalness, -often shocking and disconcerting. The Ácomas, who must share the -universal human yearning for something permanent, enduring, without -shadow of change,--they had their idea in substance. They actually lived -upon their Rock; were born upon it and died upon it. There was an -element of exaggeration in anything so simple! - -As they drew near the Ácoma mesa, dark clouds began boiling up from -behind it, like ink spots spreading in a brilliant sky. - -"Rain come," remarked Jacinto. "That is good. They will be well -disposed." He left the mules in a stake corral at the foot of the mesa, -took up the blankets, and hurried Father Latour into the narrow crack in -the rock where the craggy edges formed a kind of natural stairway up the -cliff. Wherever the footing was treacherous, it was helped out by little -handholds, ground into the stone like smooth mittens. The mesa was -absolutely naked of vegetation, but at its foot a rank plant grew -conspicuously out of the sand; a plant with big white blossoms like -Easter lilies. By its dark blue-green leaves, large and coarse-toothed, -Father Latour recognized a species of the noxious datura. The size and -luxuriance of these nightshades astonished him. They looked like great -artificial plants, made of shining silk. - -While they were ascending the rock, deafening thunder broke over their -heads, and the rain began to fall as if it were spilled from a -cloud-burst. Drawing into a deep twist of the stairway, under an -overhanging ledge, they watched the water shaken in heavy curtains in -the air before them. In a moment the seam in which they stood was like -the channel of a brook. Looking out over the great plain spotted with -mesas and glittering with rain sheets, the Bishop saw the distant -mountains bright with sunlight. Again he thought that the first Creation -morning might have looked like this, when the dry land was first drawn -up out of the deep, and all was confusion. - -The storm was over in half an hour. By the time the Bishop and his guide -reached the last turn in the trail, and rose through the crack, stepping -out on the flat top of the rock, the noontide sun was blazing down upon -Ácoma with almost insupportable brightness. The bare stone floor of the -town and its deepworn paths were washed white and clean, and those -depressions in the surface which the Ácomas call their cisterns, were -full of fresh rain water. Already the women were bringing out their -clothes, to begin washing. The drinking water was carried up the -stairway in earthen jars on the heads of the women, from a secret spring -below; but for all other purposes the people depended on the rainfall -held in these cisterns. - -The top of the mesa was about ten acres in extent, the Bishop judged, -and there was not a tree or a blade of green upon it; not a handful of -soil, except the churchyard, held in by an adobe wall, where the earth -for burial had been carried up in baskets from the plain below. The -white dwellings, two and three storeyed, were not scattered, but huddled -together in a close cluster, with no protecting slope of ground or -shoulder of rock, lying flat against the flat, bright against the -bright,--both the rock and the plastered houses threw off the sun glare -blindingly. - -At the very edge of the mesa, overhanging the abyss so that its -retaining wall was like a part of the cliff itself, was the old warlike -church of Ácoma, with its two stone towers. Gaunt, grim, grey, its nave -rising some seventy feet to a sagging, half-ruined roof, it was more -like a fortress than a place of worship. That spacious interior -depressed the Bishop as no other mission church had done. He held a -service there before midday, and he had never found it so hard to go -through the ceremony of the Mass. Before him, on the grey floor, in the -grey light, a group of bright shawls and blankets, some fifty or sixty -silent faces; above and behind them the grey walls. He felt as if he -were celebrating Mass at the bottom of the sea, for antediluvian -creatures; for types of life so old, so hardened, so shut within their -shells, that the sacrifice on Calvary could hardly reach back so far. -Those shell-like backs behind him might be saved by baptism and divine -grace, as undeveloped infants are, but hardly through any experience of -their own, he thought. When he blessed them and sent them away, it was -with a sense of inadequacy and spiritual defeat. - -After he had laid aside his vestments, Father Latour went over the -church with Jacinto. As he examined it his wonder grew. What need had -there ever been for this great church at Ácoma? It was built early in -sixteen hundred, by Fray Juan Ramirez, a great missionary, who laboured -on the Rock of Ácoma for twenty years or more. It was Father Ramirez, -too, who made the mule trail down the other side,--the only path by -which a burro can ascend the mesa, and which is still called "El Camino -del Padre." - -The more Father Latour examined this church, the more he was inclined to -think that Fray Ramirez, or some Spanish priest who followed him, was -not altogether innocent of worldly ambition, and that they built for -their own satisfaction, perhaps, rather than according to the needs of -the Indians. The magnificent site, the natural grandeur of this -stronghold, might well have turned their heads a little. Powerful men -they must have been, those Spanish Fathers, to draft Indian labour for -this great work without military support. Every stone in that structure, -every handful of earth in those many thousand pounds of adobe, was -carried up the trail on the backs of men and boys and women. And the -great carved beams of the roof--Father Latour looked at them with -amazement. In all the plain through which he had come he had seen no -trees but a few stunted piñons. He asked Jacinto where these huge -timbers could have been found. - -"San Mateo mountain, I guess." - -"But the San Mateo mountains must be forty or fifty miles away. How -could they bring such timbers?" - -Jacinto shrugged. "Ácomas carry." Certainly there was no other -explanation. - -Besides the church proper there was the cloister, large, thick-walled, -which must have required an enormous labour of portage from the plain. -The deep cloister corridors were cool when the rock outside was -blistering; the low arches opened on an enclosed garden which, judging -from its depth of earth, must once have been very verdant. Pacing those -shady passages, with four feet of solid, windowless adobe shutting out -everything but the green garden and the turquoise sky above, the early -missionaries might well have forgotten the poor Ácomas, that tribe of -ancient rock-turtles, and believed themselves in some cloister hung on a -spur of the Pyrenees. - -In the grey dust of the enclosed garden two thin, half-dead peach trees -still struggled with the drouth, the kind of unlikely tree that grows up -from an old root and never bears. By the wall yellow suckers put out -from an old vine stump, very thick and hard, which must once have borne -its ripe clusters. - -Built upon the north-east corner of the cloister the Bishop found a -loggia--roofed, but with open sides, looking down on the white pueblo -and the tawny rock, and over the wide plain below. There he decided he -would spend the night. From this loggia he watched the sun go down; -watched the desert become dark, the shadows creep upward. Abroad in the -plain the scattered mesa tops, red with the afterglow, one by one lost -their light, like candles going out. He was on a naked rock in the -desert, in the stone age, a prey to homesickness for his own kind, his -own epoch, for European man and his glorious history of desire and -dreams. Through all the centuries that his own part of the world had -been changing like the sky at day-break, this people had been fixed, -increasing neither in numbers nor desires, rock-turtles on their rock. -Something reptilian he felt here, something that had endured by -immobility, a kind of life out of reach, like the crustaceans in their -armour. - -On his homeward way the Bishop spent another night with Father Jesus, -the good priest at Isleta, who talked with him much of the Moqui country -and of those very old rock-set pueblos still farther to the west. One -story related to a long-forgotten friar at Ácoma, and was somewhat as -follows: - - - - -4 - -THE LEGEND OF FRAY BALTAZAR - - -SOME time in the very early years of seventeen hundred, nearly fifty -years after the great Indian uprising in which all the missionaries and -all the Spaniards in northern New Mexico were either driven out or -murdered, after the country had been reconquered and new missionaries -had come to take the place of the martyrs, a certain Friar Baltazar -Montoya was priest at Ácoma. He was of a tyrannical and overbearing -disposition and bore a hard hand on the natives. All the missions now in -ruins were active then, each had its resident priest, who lived for the -people or upon the people, according to his nature. Friar Baltazar was -one of the most ambitious and exacting. It was his belief that the -pueblo of Ácoma existed chiefly to support its fine church, and that -this should be the pride of the Indians as it was his. He took the best -of their corn and beans and squashes for his table, and selected the -choicest portions when they slaughtered a sheep, chose their best hides -to carpet his dwelling. Moreover, he exacted a heavy tribute in labour. -He was never done with having earth carried up from the plain in -baskets. He enlarged the churchyard and made the deep garden in the -cloister, enriching it with dung from the corrals. Here he was able to -grow a wonderful garden, since it was watered every evening by -women,--and this despite the fact that it was not proper that a woman -should ever enter the cloister at all. Each woman owed the Padre so many -_ollas_ of water a week from the cisterns, and they murmured not only -because of the labour, but because of the drain on their water-supply. - -Baltazar was not a lazy man, and in his first years there, before he -became stout, he made long journeys in behalf of his mission and his -garden. He went as far as Oraibi, many days' journey, to select their -best peach seeds. (The peach orchards of Oraibi were very old, having -been cultivated since the days of the earliest Spanish expeditions, when -Coronado's captains gave the Moquis peach seeds brought from Spain.) His -grape cuttings were brought from Sonora in baskets on muleback, and he -would go all the way to the Villa (Santa Fé) for choice garden seeds, -at the season when pack trains came up the Rio Grande valley. The early -churchmen did a great business in carrying seeds about, though the -Indians and Mexicans were satisfied with beans and squashes and chili, -asking nothing more. - -Friar Baltazar was from a religious house in Spain which was noted for -good living, and he himself had worked in the refectory. He was an -excellent cook and something of a carpenter, and he took a great deal of -trouble to make himself comfortable upon that rock at the end of the -world. He drafted two Indian boys into his service, one to care for his -ass and work in the garden, the other to cook and wait upon him at -table. In time, as he grew more unwieldy in figure, he adopted a third -boy and employed him as a runner to the distant missions. This boy would -go on foot all the way to the Villa for red cloth or an iron spade or a -new knife, stopping at Bernalillo to bring home a wineskin full of grape -brandy. He would go five days' journey to the Sandia mountains to catch -fish and dry or salt them for the Padre's fast-days, or run to Zuñi, -where the Fathers raised rabbits, and bring back a pair for the spit. -His errands were seldom of an ecclesiastical nature. - -It was clear that the Friar at Ácoma lived more after the flesh than -after the spirit. The difficulty of obtaining an interesting and varied -diet on a naked rock seemed only to whet his appetite and tempt his -resourcefulness. But his sensuality went no further than his garden and -table. Carnal commerce with the Indian women would have been very easy -indeed, and the Friar was at the hardy age of ripe manhood when such -temptations are peculiarly sharp. But the missionaries had early -discovered that the slightest departure from chastity greatly weakened -their influence and authority with their Indian converts. The Indians -themselves sometimes practised continence as a penance, or as a strong -medicine with the spirits, and they were very willing that their Padre -should practise it for them. The consequences of carnal indulgence were -perhaps more serious here than in Spain, and Friar Baltazar seems never -to have given his flock an opportunity to exult over his frailty. - -He held his seat at Ácoma for nearly fifteen prosperous years, -constantly improving his church and his living-quarters, growing new -vegetables and medicinal herbs, making soap from the yucca root. Even -after he became stout, his arms were strong and muscular, his fingers -clever. He cultivated his peach trees, and watched over his garden like -a little kingdom, never allowing the native women to grow slack in the -water-supply. His first serving-boys were released to marry, and others -succeeded them, who were even more minutely trained. - -Baltazar's tyranny grew little by little, and the Ácoma people were -sometimes at the point of revolt. But they could not estimate just how -powerful the Padre's magic might be and were afraid to put it to the -test. There was no doubt that the holy picture of St. Joseph had come to -them from the King of Spain by the request of this Padre, and that -picture had been more effective in averting drouth than all the native -rain-makers had been. Properly entreated and honoured, the painting had -never failed to produce rain. Ácoma had not lost its crops since Friar -Baltazar first brought the picture to them, though at Laguna and Zuñi -there had been drouths that compelled the people to live upon their -famine store,--an alarming extremity. - -The Laguna Indians were constantly sending legations to Ácoma to -negotiate terms at which they could rent the holy picture, but Friar -Baltazar had warned them never to let it go. If such powerful protection -were withdrawn, or if the Padre should turn the magic against them, the -consequences might be disastrous to the pueblo. Better give him his -choice of grain and lambs and pottery, and allow him his three -serving-boys. So the missionary and his converts rubbed along in seeming -friendliness. - -One summer the Friar, who did not make long journeys now that he had -grown large in girth, decided that he would like company,--someone to -admire his fine garden, his ingenious kitchen, his airy loggia with its -rugs and water jars, where he meditated and took his after-dinner -siesta. So he planned to give a dinner party in the week after St. -John's Day. - -He sent his runner to Zuñi, Laguna, Isleta, and bade the Padres to a -feast. They came upon the day, four of them, for there were two priests -at Zuñi. The stable-boy was stationed at the foot of the rock to take -their beasts and conduct the visitors up the stairway. At the head of -the trail Baltazar received them. They were shown over the place, and -spent the morning gossiping in the cloister walks, cool and silent, -though the naked rock outside was almost too hot for the hand to touch. -The vine leaves rustled agreeably in the breeze, and the earth about the -carrot and onion tops, as it dried from last night's watering, gave off -a pleasant smell. The guests thought their host lived very well, and -they wished they had his secret. If he was a trifle boastful of his -air-bound seat, no one could blame him. - -With the dinner, Baltazar had taken extravagant pains. The monastery in -which he had learned to cook was off the main highway to Seville; the -Spanish nobles and the King himself sometimes stopped there for -entertainment. In that great kitchen, with its multiplicity of spits, -small enough to roast a lark and large enough to roast a boar, the Friar -had learned a thing or two about sauces, and in his lonely years at -Ácoma he had bettered his instruction by a natural aptitude for the -art. The poverty of materials had proved an incentive rather than a -discouragement. - -Certainly the visiting missionaries had never sat down to food like that -which rejoiced them to-day in the cool refectory, the blinds open just -enough to admit a streak of throbbing desert far below them. Their host -was telling them pompously that he would have a fountain in the cloister -close when they came again. He had to check his hungry guests in their -zeal for the relishes and the soup, warning them to save their mettle -for what was to come. The roast was to be a wild turkey, superbly -done--but that, alas, was never tasted. The course which preceded it was -the host's especial care, and here he had trusted nothing to his cook; -hare _jardinière_ (his carrots and onions were tender and well -flavoured), with a sauce which he had been perfecting for many years. -This entrée was brought from the kitchen in a large earthen dish--but -not large enough, for with its luxury of sauce and floating carrots it -filled the platter to the brim. The stable-boy was serving to-day, as -the cook could not leave his spits, and he had been neat, brisk, and -efficient. The Friar was pleased with him, and was wondering whether he -could not find some little medal of bronze or silver-gilt to reward him -for his pains. - -When the hare in its sauce came on, the priest from Isleta chanced to be -telling a funny story at which the company were laughing uproariously. -The serving-boy, who knew a little Spanish, was apparently trying to get -the point of the recital which made the Padres so merry. At any rate, he -became distracted, and as he passed behind the senior priest of Zuñi, -he tipped his full platter and spilled a stream of rich brown gravy over -the good man's head and shoulders. Baltazar was quick-tempered, and he -had been drinking freely of the fiery grape brandy. He caught up the -empty pewter mug at his right and threw it at the clumsy lad with a -malediction. It struck the boy on the side of the head. He dropped the -platter, staggered a few steps, and fell down. He did not get up, nor -did he move. The Padre from Zuñi was skilled in medicine. Wiping the -sauce from his eyes, he bent over the boy and examined him. - -"_Muerto_," he whispered. With that he plucked his junior priest by the -sleeve, and the two bolted across the garden without another word and -made for the head of the stairway. In a moment the Padres of Laguna and -Isleta unceremoniously followed their example. With remarkable speed the -four guests got them down from the rock, saddled their mules, and urged -them across the plain. - -Baltazar was left alone with the consequences of his haste. -Unfortunately the cook, astonished at the prolonged silence, had looked -in at the door just as the last pair of brown gowns were vanishing -across the cloister. He saw his comrade lying upon the floor, and -silently disappeared from the premises by an exit known only to himself. - -When Friar Baltazar went into the kitchen he found it solitary, the -turkey still dripping on the spit. Certainly he had no appetite for the -roast. He felt, indeed, very remorseful and uncomfortable, also -indignant with his departed guests. For a moment he entertained the idea -of following them; but a temporary flight would only weaken his -position, and a permanent evacuation was not to be thought of. His -garden was at its prime, his peaches were just coming ripe, and his -vines hung heavy with green clusters. Mechanically he took the turkey -from the spit, not because he felt any inclination for food, but from an -instinct of compassion, quite as if the bird could suffer from being -burned to a crisp. This done, he repaired to his loggia and sat down to -read his breviary, which he had neglected for several days, having been -so occupied in the refectory. He had begrudged no pains to that sauce -which had been his undoing. - -The airy loggia, where he customarily took his afternoon repose, was -like a birdcage hung in the breeze. Through its open archways he looked -down on the huddled pueblo, and out over the great mesa-strewn plain far -below. He was unable to fix his mind upon his office. The pueblo down -there was much too quiet. At this hour there should be a few women -washing pots or rags, a few children playing by the cisterns and chasing -the turkeys. But to-day the rock top baked in the fire of the sun in -utter silence, not one human being was visible--yes, one, though he had -not been there a moment ago. At the head of the stone stairway, there -was a patch of lustrous black, just above the rocks; an Indian's hair. -They had set a guard at the trail head. - -Now the Padre began to feel alarmed, to wish he had gone down that -stairway with the others, while there was yet time. He wished he were -anywhere in the world but on this rock. There was old Father Ramirez's -donkey path; but if the Indians were watching one road, they would watch -the other. The spot of black hair never stirred; and there were but -those two ways down to the plain, only those ... Whichever way one -turned, three hundred and fifty feet of naked cliff, without one tree or -shrub a man could cling to. - -As the sun sank lower and lower, there began a deep, singing murmur of -male voices from the pueblo below him, not a chant, but the rhythmical -intonation of Indian oratory when a serious matter is under discussion. -Frightful stories of the torture of the missionaries in the great -rebellion of 1680 flashed into Friar Baltazar's mind; how one Franciscan -had his eyes torn out, another had been burned, and the old Padre at -Jamez had been stripped naked and driven on all fours about the plaza -all night, with drunken Indians straddling his back, until he rolled -over dead from exhaustion. - -Moonrise from the loggia was an impressive sight, even to this Brother -who was not over-impressionable. But to-night he wished he could keep -the moon from coming up through the floor of the desert,--the moon was -the clock which began things in the pueblo. He watched with horror for -that golden rim against the deep blue velvet of the night. - -The moon came, and at its coming the Ácoma people issued from their -doors. A company of men walked silently across the rock to the cloister. -They came up the ladder and appeared in the loggia. The Friar asked them -gruffly what they wanted, but they made no reply. Not once speaking to -him or to each other, they bound his feet together and tied his arms to -his sides. - -The Ácoma people told afterwards that he did not supplicate or -struggle; had he done so, they might have dealt more cruelly with him. -But he knew his Indians, and that when once they had collectively made -up their pueblo mind ... Moreover, he was a proud old Spaniard, and had -a certain fortitude lodged in his well-nourished body. He was accustomed -to command, not to entreat, and he retained the respect of his Indian -vassals to the end. - -They carried him down the ladder and through the cloister and across the -rock to the most precipitous cliff--the one over which the Ácoma women -flung broken pots and such refuse as the turkeys would not eat. There -the people were assembled. They cut his bonds, and taking him by the -hands and feet, swung him out over the rock-edge and back a few times. -He was heavy, and perhaps they thought this dangerous sport. No sound -but hissing breath came through his teeth. The four executioners took -him up again from the brink where they had laid him, and, after a few -feints, dropped him in mid-air. - -So did they rid their rock of their tyrant, whom on the whole they had -liked very well. But everything has its day. The execution was not -followed by any sacrilege to the church or defiling of holy vessels, but -merely by a division of the Padre's stores and household goods. The -women, indeed, took pleasure in watching the garden pine and waste away -from thirst, and ventured into the cloisters to laugh and chatter at the -whitening foliage of the peach trees, and the green grapes shrivelling -on the vines. - -When the next priest came, years afterward, he found no ill will -awaiting him. He was a native Mexican, of unpretentious tastes, who was -well satisfied with beans and jerked meat, and let the pueblo turkey -flock scratch in the hot dust that had once been Baltazar's garden. The -old peach stumps kept sending up pale sprouts for many years. - - - - -BOOK FOUR - -_SNAKE ROOT_ - - - - -1 - -THE NIGHT AT PECOS - - -A MONTH after the Bishop's visit to Albuquerque and Ácoma, the genial -Father Gallegos was formally suspended, and Father Vaillant himself took -charge of the parish. At first there was bitter feeling; the rich -_rancheros_ and the merry ladies of Albuquerque were very hostile to the -French priest. He began his reforms at once. Everything was changed. The -holy-days, which had been occasions of revelry under Padre Gallegos, -were now days of austere devotion. The fickle Mexican population soon -found as much diversion in being devout as they had once found in being -scandalous. Father Vaillant wrote to his sister Philomène, in France, -that the temper of his parish was like that of a boys' school; under one -master the lads try to excel one another in mischief and disobedience, -under another they vie with each other in acts of loyalty. The Novena -preceding Christmas, which had long been celebrated by dances and -hilarious merry-making, was this year a great revival of religious zeal. - -Though Father Vaillant had all the duties of a parish priest at -Albuquerque, he was still Vicar General, and in February the Bishop -dispatched him on urgent business to Las Vegas. He did not return on the -day that he was expected, and when several days passed with no word from -him, Father Latour began to feel some anxiety. - -One morning at day-break a very sick Indian boy rode into the Bishop's -courtyard on Father Joseph's white mule, Contento, bringing bad news. -The Padre, he said, had stopped at his village in the Pecos mountains -where black measles had broken out, to give the sacrament to the dying, -and had fallen ill of the sickness. The boy himself had been well when -he started for Santa Fé, but had become sick on the way. - -The Bishop had the messenger put into the wood-house, an isolated -building at the end of the garden, where the Sisters of Loretto could -tend him. He instructed the Mother Superior to pack a bag with such -medicines and comforts for the sick as he could carry, and told -Fructosa, his cook, to put up for him the provisions he usually took on -horseback journeys. When his man brought a pack-mule and his own mule, -Angelica, to the door, Father Latour, already in his rough -riding-breeches and buckskin jacket, looked at the handsome beast and -shook his head. - -"No, leave her with Contento. The new army mule is heavier, and will do -for this journey." - -The Bishop rode out of Santa Fé two hours after the Indian messenger -rode in. He was going direct to the pueblo of Pecos, where he would pick -up Jacinto. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the pueblo, -lying low on its red rock ledges, half-surrounded by a crown of fir-clad -mountains, and facing a sea of junipers and cedars. The Bishop had meant -to get fresh horses at Pecos and push on through the mountains, but -Jacinto and the older Indians who gathered about the horseman, strongly -advised him to spend the night there and start in the early morning. The -sun was shining brilliantly in a blue sky, but in the west, behind the -mountain, lay a great stationary black cloud, opaque and motionless as a -ledge of rock. The old men looked at it and shook their heads. - -"Very big wind," said the governor gravely. - -Unwillingly the Bishop dismounted and gave his mules to Jacinto; it -seemed to him that he was wasting time. There was still an hour before -nightfall, and he spent that hour pacing up and down the crust of bare -rock between the village and the ruin of the old mission church. The sun -was sinking, a red ball which threw a copper glow over the pine-covered -ridge of mountains, and edged that inky, ominous cloud with molten -silver. The great red earth walls of the mission, red as brick-dust, -yawned gloomily before him,--part of the roof had fallen in, and the -rest would soon go. - -At this moment Father Joseph was lying dangerously ill in the dirt and -discomfort of an Indian village in winter. Why, the Bishop was asking -himself, had he ever brought his friend to this life of hardship and -danger? Father Vaillant had been frail from childhood, though he had the -endurance resulting from exhaustless enthusiasm. The Brothers at -Montferrand were not given to coddling boys, but every year they used to -send this one away for a rest in the high Volvic mountains, because his -vitality ran down under the confinement of college life. Twice, while he -and Father Latour were missionaries in Ohio, Joseph had been at death's -door; once so ill with cholera that the newspapers had printed his name -in the death list. On that occasion their Ohio Bishop had christened him -_Trompe-la-Mort_. Yes, Father Latour told himself, _Blanchet_ had -outwitted death so often, there was always the chance he would do it -again. - -Walking about the walls of the ruin, the Bishop discovered that the -sacristy was dry and clean, and he decided to spend the night there, -wrapped in his blankets, on one of the earthen benches that ran about -the inner walls. While he was examining this room, the wind began to -howl about the old church, and darkness fell quickly. From the low -doorways of the pueblo ruddy fire-light was gleaming--singularly -grateful to the eye. Waiting for him on the rocks, he recognized the -slight figure of Jacinto, his blanket drawn close about his head, his -shoulders bowed to the wind. - -The young Indian said that supper was ready, and the Bishop followed him -to his particular lair in those rows of little houses all alike and all -built together. There was a ladder before Jacinto's door which led up to -a second storey, but that was the dwelling of another family; the roof -of Jacinto's house made a veranda for the family above him. The Bishop -bent his head under the low doorway and stepped down; the floor of the -room was a long step below the doorsill--the Indian way of preventing -drafts. The room into which he descended was long and narrow, smoothly -whitewashed, and clean, to the eye, at least, because of its very -bareness. There was nothing on the walls but a few fox pelts and strings -of gourds and red peppers. The richly coloured blankets of which Jacinto -was very proud were folded in piles on the earth settle,--it was there -he and his wife slept, near the fire-place. The earth of that settle -became warm during the day and held its heat until morning, like the -Russian peasants' stove-bed. Over the fire a pot of beans and dried meat -was simmering. The burning piñon logs filled the room with -sweet-smelling smoke. Clara, Jacinto's wife, smiled at the priest as he -entered. She ladled out the stew, and the Bishop and Jacinto sat down on -the floor beside the fire, each with his bowl. Between them Clara put a -basin full of hot corn-bread baked with squash seeds,--an Indian -delicacy comparable to raisin bread among the whites. The Bishop said a -blessing and broke the bread with his hands. While the two men ate, the -young woman watched them and stirred a tiny cradle of deerskin which -hung by thongs from the roof poles. Jacinto, when questioned, said sadly -that the baby was ailing. Father Latour did not ask to see it; it would -be swathed in layers of wrappings, he knew; even its face and head would -be covered against drafts. Indian babies were never bathed in winter, -and it was useless to suggest treatment for the sick ones. On that -subject the Indian ear was closed to advice. - -It was a pity, too, that he could do nothing for Jacinto's baby. Cradles -were not many in the pueblo of Pecos. The tribe was dying out; infant -mortality was heavy, and the young couples did not reproduce -freely,--the life-force seemed low. Smallpox and measles had taken heavy -toll here time and again. - -Of course there were other explanations, credited by many good people in -Santa Fé. Pecos had more than its share of dark legends,--perhaps that -was because it had been too tempting to white men, and had had more than -its share of history. It was said that this people had from time -immemorial kept a ceremonial fire burning in some cave in the mountain, -a fire that had never been allowed to go out, and had never been -revealed to white men. The story was that the service of this fire -sapped the strength of the young men appointed to serve it,--always the -best of the tribe. Father Latour thought this hardly probable. Why -should it be very arduous, in a mountain full of timber, to feed a fire -so small that its whereabouts had been concealed for centuries? - -There was also the snake story, reported by the early explorers, both -Spanish and American, and believed ever since: that this tribe was -peculiarly addicted to snake worship, that they kept rattlesnakes -concealed in their houses, and somewhere in the mountain guarded an -enormous serpent which they brought to the pueblo for certain feasts. It -was said that they sacrificed young babies to the great snake, and thus -diminished their numbers. - -It seemed much more likely that the contagious diseases brought by white -men were the real cause of the shrinkage of the tribe. Among the -Indians, measles, scarlatina and whooping-cough were as deadly as typhus -or cholera. Certainly, the tribe was decreasing every year. Jacinto's -house was at one end of the living pueblo; behind it were long rock -ridges of dead pueblo,--empty houses ruined by weather and now scarcely -more than piles of earth and stone. The population of the living streets -was less than one hundred adults.[1] This was all that was left of the -rich and populous Cicuyè of Coronado's expedition. Then, by his report, -there were six thousand souls in the Indian town. They had rich fields -irrigated from the Pecos River. The streams were full of fish, the -mountain was full of game. The pueblo, indeed, seemed to lie upon the -knees of these verdant mountains, like a favoured child. Out yonder, on -the juniper-spotted plateau in front of the village, the Spaniards had -camped, exacting a heavy tribute of corn and furs and cotton garments -from their hapless hosts. It was from here, the story went, that they -set forth in the spring on their ill-fated search for the seven golden -cities of Quivera, taking with them slaves and concubines ravished from -the Pecos people. - -As Father Latour sat by the fire and listened to the wind sweeping down -from the mountains and howling over the plateau, he thought of these -things; and he could not help wondering whether Jacinto, sitting silent -by the same fire, was thinking of them, too. The wind, he knew, was -blowing out of the inky cloud bank that lay behind the mountain at -sunset; but it might well be blowing out of a remote, black past. The -only human voice raised against it was the feeble wailing of the sick -child in the cradle. Clara ate noiselessly in a corner, Jacinto looked -into the fire. - -The Bishop read his breviary by the fire-light for an hour. Then, warmed -to the bone and assured that his roll of blankets was warmed through, he -rose to go. Jacinto followed with the blankets and one of his own -buffalo robes. They went along a line of red doorways and across the -bare rock to the gaunt ruin, whose lateral walls, with their buttresses, -still braved the storm and let in the starlight. - - -[Footnote 1: _In actual fact, the dying pueblo of Pecos was abandoned -some years before the American occupation of New Mexico._] - - - - - -2 - -STONE LIPS - - -IT was not difficult for the Bishop to waken early. After midnight his -body became more and more chilled and cramped. He said his prayers -before he rolled out of his blankets, remembering Father Vaillant's -maxim that if you said your prayers first, you would find plenty of time -for other things afterward. - -Going through the silent pueblo to Jacinto's door, the Bishop woke him -and asked him to make a fire. While the Indian went to get the mules -ready, Father Latour got his coffee-pot and tin cup out of his -saddle-bags, and a round loaf of Mexican bread. With bread and black -coffee, he could travel day after day. Jacinto was for starting without -breakfast, but Father Latour made him sit down and share his loaf. Bread -is never too plenty in Indian households. Clara was still lying on the -settle with her baby. - -At four o'clock they were on the road, Jacinto riding the mule that -carried the blankets. He knew the trails through his own mountains well -enough to follow them in the dark. Toward noon the Bishop suggested a -halt to rest the mules, but his guide looked at the sky and shook his -head. The sun was nowhere to be seen, the air was thick and grey and -smelled of snow. Very soon the snow began to fall--lightly at first, but -all the while becoming heavier. The vista of pine trees ahead of them -grew shorter and shorter through the vast powdering of descending -flakes. A little after midday a burst of wind sent the snow whirling in -coils about the two travellers, and a great storm broke. The wind was -like a hurricane at sea, and the air became blind with snow. The Bishop -could scarcely see his guide--saw only parts of him, now a head, now a -shoulder, now only the black rump of his mule. Pine trees by the way -stood out for a moment, then disappeared absolutely in the whirlpool of -snow. Trail and landmarks, the mountain itself, were obliterated. - -Jacinto sprang from his mule and unstrapped the roll of blankets. -Throwing the saddle-bags to the Bishop, he shouted, "Come, I know a -place. Be quick, Padre." - -The Bishop protested they could not leave the mules. Jacinto said the -mules must take their chance. - -For Father Latour the next hour was a test of endurance. He was blind -and breathless, panting through his open mouth. He clambered over -half-visible rocks, fell over prostrate trees, sank into deep holes and -struggled out, always following the red blankets on the shoulders of the -Indian boy, which stuck out when the boy himself was lost to sight. - -Suddenly the snow seemed thinner. The guide stopped short. They were -standing, the Bishop made out, under an overhanging wall of rock which -made a barrier against the storm. Jacinto dropped the blankets from his -shoulder and seemed to be preparing to climb the cliff. Looking up, the -Bishop saw a peculiar formation in the rocks; two rounded ledges, one -directly over the other, with a mouth-like opening between. They -suggested two great stone lips, slightly parted and thrust outward. Up -to this mouth Jacinto climbed quickly by footholds well known to him. -Having mounted, he lay down on the lower lip, and helped the Bishop to -clamber up. He told Father Latour to wait for him on this projection -while he brought up the baggage. - -A few moments later the Bishop slid after Jacinto and the blankets, -through the orifice, into the throat of the cave. Within stood a wooden -ladder, like that used in kivas, and down this he easily made his way to -the floor. - -He found himself in a lofty cavern, shaped somewhat like a Gothic -chapel, of vague outline,--the only light within was that which came -through the narrow aperture between the stone lips. Great as was his -need of shelter, the Bishop, on his way down the ladder, was struck by a -reluctance, an extreme distaste for the place. The air in the cave was -glacial, penetrated to the very bones, and he detected at once a fetid -odour, not very strong but highly disagreeable. Some twenty feet or so -above his head the open mouth let in grey daylight like a high transom. - -While he stood gazing about, trying to reckon the size of the cave, his -guide was intensely preoccupied in making a careful examination of the -floor and walls. At the foot of the ladder lay a heap of half-burned -logs. There had been a fire there, and it had been extinguished with -fresh earth,--a pile of dust covered what had been the heart of the -fire. Against the cavern wall was a heap of piñon faggots, neatly -piled. After he had made a minute examination of the floor, the guide -began cautiously to move this pile of wood, taking the sticks up one by -one, and putting them in another spot. The Bishop supposed he would make -a fire at once, but he seemed in no haste to do so. Indeed, when he had -moved the wood he sat down upon the floor and fell into reflection. -Father Latour urged him to build a fire without further delay. - -"Padre," said the Indian boy, "I do not know if it was right to bring -you here. This place is used by my people for ceremonies and is known -only to us. When you go out from here, you must forget." - -"I will forget, certainly. But unless we can have a fire, we had better -go back into the storm. I feel ill here already." - -Jacinto unrolled the blankets and threw the dryest one about the -shivering priest. Then he bent over the pile of ashes and charred wood, -but what he did was to select a number of small stones that had been -used to fence in the burning embers. These he gathered in his _serape_ and -carried to the rear wall of the cavern, where, a little above his head, -there seemed to be a hole. It was about as large as a very big -watermelon, of an irregular oval shape. - -Holes of that shape are common in the black volcanic cliffs of the -Pajarito Plateau, where they occur in great numbers. This one was -solitary, dark, and seemed to lead into another cavern. Though it lay -higher than Jacinto's head, it was not beyond easy reach of his arms, -and to the Bishop's astonishment he began deftly and noiselessly to -place the stones he had collected within the mouth of this orifice, -fitting them together until he had entirely closed it. He then cut -wedges from the piñon faggots and inserted them into the cracks between -the stones. Finally, he took a handful of the earth that had been used -to smother the dead fire, and mixed it with the wet snow that had blown -in between the stone lips. With this thick mud he plastered over his -masonry, and smoothed it with his palm. The whole operation did not take -a quarter of an hour. - -Without comment or explanation he then proceeded to build a fire. The -odour so disagreeable to the Bishop soon vanished before the fragrance -of the burning logs. The heat seemed to purify the rank air at the same -time that it took away the deathly chill, but the dizzy noise in Father -Latour's head persisted. At first he thought it was a vertigo, a roaring -in his ears brought on by cold and changes in his circulation. But as he -grew warm and relaxed, he perceived an extraordinary vibration in this -cavern; it hummed like a hive of bees, like a heavy roll of distant -drums. After a time he asked Jacinto whether he, too, noticed this. The -slim Indian boy smiled for the first time since they had entered the -cave. He took up a faggot for a torch, and beckoned the Padre to follow -him along a tunnel which ran back into the mountain, where the roof grew -much lower, almost within reach of the hand. There Jacinto knelt down -over a fissure in the stone floor, like a crack in china, which was -plastered up with clay. Digging some of this out with his hunting knife, -he put his ear on the opening, listened a few seconds, and motioned the -Bishop to do likewise. - -Father Latour lay with his ear to this crack for a long while, despite -the cold that arose from it. He told himself he was listening to one of -the oldest voices of the earth. What he heard was the sound of a great -underground river, flowing through a resounding cavern. The water was -far, far below, perhaps as deep as the foot of the mountain, a flood -moving in utter blackness under ribs of antediluvian rock. It was not a -rushing noise, but the sound of a great flood moving with majesty and -power. - -"It is terrible," he said at last, as he rose. - -"_Si, Padre_." Jacinto began spitting on the clay he had gouged out of -the seam, and plastered it up again. - -When they returned to the fire, the patch of daylight up between the two -lips had grown much paler. The Bishop saw it die with regret. He took -from his saddle-bags his coffee-pot and a loaf of bread and a goat -cheese. Jacinto climbed up to the lower ledge of the entrance, shook a -pine tree, and filled the coffee-pot and one of the blankets with fresh -snow. While his guide was thus engaged, the Bishop took a swallow of old -Taos whisky from his pocket flask. He never liked to drink spirits in -the presence of an Indian. - -Jacinto declared that he thought himself lucky to get bread and black -coffee. As he handed the Bishop back his tin cup after drinking its -contents, he rubbed his hand over his wide sash with a smile of pleasure -that showed all his white teeth. - -"We had good luck to be near here," he said. "When we leave the mules, I -think I can find my way here, but I am not sure. I have not been here -very many times. You was scare, Padre?" - -The Bishop reflected. "You hardly gave me time to be scared, boy. Were -you?" - -The Indian shrugged his shoulders. "I think not to return to pueblo," he -admitted. - -Father Latour read his breviary long by the light of the fire. Since -early morning his mind had been on other than spiritual things. At last -he felt that he could sleep. He made Jacinto repeat a _Pater Noster_ -with him, as he always did on their night camps, rolled himself in his -blankets, and stretched out, feet to the fire. He had it in his mind, -however, to waken in the night and study a little the curious hole his -guide had so carefully closed. After he put on the mud, Jacinto had -never looked in the direction of that hole again, and Father Latour, -observing Indian good manners, had tried not to glance toward it. - -He did waken, and the fire was still giving off a rich glow of light in -that lofty Gothic chamber. But there against the wall was his guide, -standing on some invisible foothold, his arms outstretched against the -rock, his body flattened against it, his ear over that patch of fresh -mud, listening; listening with supersensual ear, it seemed, and he -looked to be supported against the rock by the intensity of his -solicitude. The Bishop closed his eyes without making a sound and -wondered why he had supposed he could catch his guide asleep. - -The next morning they crawled out through the stone lips, and dropped -into a gleaming white world. The snow-clad mountains were red in the -rising sun. The Bishop stood looking down over ridge after ridge of -wintry fir trees with the tender morning breaking over them, all their -branches laden with soft, rose-coloured clouds of virgin snow. - -Jacinto said it would not be worth while to look for the mules. When the -snow melted, he would recover the saddles and bridles. They floundered -on foot some eight miles to a squatter's cabin, rented horses, and -completed their journey by starlight. When they reached Father Vaillant, -he was sitting up in a bed of buffalo skins, his fever broken, already -on the way to recovery. Another good friend had reached him before the -Bishop. Kit Carson, on a deer hunt in the mountains with two Taos -Indians, had heard that this village was stricken and that the Vicario -was there. He hurried to the rescue, and got into the pueblo with a pack -of venison meat just before the storm broke. As soon as Father Vaillant -could sit in the saddle, Carson and the Bishop took him back to Santa -Fé, breaking the journey into four days because of his enfeebled state. - - -The Bishop kept his word, and never spoke of Jacinto's cave to anyone, -but he did not cease from wondering about it. It flashed into his mind -from time to time, and always with a shudder of repugnance quite -unjustified by anything he had experienced there. It had been a -hospitable shelter to him in his extremity. Yet afterward he remembered -the storm itself, even his exhaustion, with a tingling sense of -pleasure. But the cave, which had probably saved his life, he remembered -with horror. No tales of wonder, he told himself, would ever tempt him -into a cavern hereafter. - -At home again, in his own house, he still felt a certain curiosity about -this ceremonial cave, and Jacinto's puzzling behaviour. It seemed almost -to lend a colour of probability to some of those unpleasant stories -about the Pecos religion. He was already convinced that neither the -white men nor the Mexicans in Santa Fé understood anything about Indian -beliefs or the workings of the Indian mind. - -Kit Carson had told him that the proprietor of the trading post between -Glorieta Pass and the Pecos pueblo had grown up a neighbour to these -Indians, and knew as much about them as anybody. His parents had kept -the trading post before him, and his mother was the first white woman in -that neighborhood. The trader's name was Zeb Orchard; he lived alone in -the mountains, selling salt and sugar and whisky and tobacco to red men -and white. Carson said that he was honest and truthful, a good friend to -the Indians, and had at one time wanted to marry a Pecos girl, but his -old mother, who was very proud of being "white," would not hear to it, -and so he had remained a single man and a recluse. - -Father Latour made a point of stopping for the night with this trader on -one of his missionary journeys, in order to question him about the Pecos -customs and ceremonies. - -Orchard said that the legend about the undying fire was unquestionably -true; but it was kept burning, not in the mountain, but in their own -pueblo. It was a smothered fire in a clay oven, and had been burning in -one of the kivas ever since the pueblo was founded, centuries ago. About -the snake stories, he was not certain. He had seen rattlesnakes around -the pueblo, to be sure, but there were rattlers everywhere. A Pecos boy -had been bitten on the ankle some years ago, and had come to him-for -whisky; he swelled up and was very sick, like any other boy. - -The Bishop asked Orchard if he thought it probable that the Indians kept -a great serpent in concealment somewhere, as was commonly reported. - -"They do keep some sort of varmint out in the mountain, that they bring -in for their religious ceremonies," the trader said. "But I don't know -if it's a snake or not. No white man knows anything about Indian -religion, Padre." - -As they talked further, Orchard admitted that when he was a boy he had -been very curious about these snake stories himself, and once, at their -festival time, he had spied on the Pecos men, though that was not a very -safe thing to do. He had lain in ambush for two nights on the mountain, -and he saw a party of Indians bringing in a chest by torchlight. It was -about the size of a woman's trunk, and it was heavy enough to bend the -young aspen poles on which it was hung. "If I'd seen white men bringing -in a chest after dark," he observed, "I could have made a guess at what -was in it; money, or whisky, or fire-arms. But seeing it was Indians, I -can't say. It might have been only queer-shaped rocks their ancestors -had taken a notion to. The things they value most are worth nothing to -us. They've got their own superstitions, and their minds will go round -and round in the same old ruts till Judgment Day." - -Father Latour remarked that their veneration for old customs was a -quality he liked in the Indians, and that it played a great part in his -own religion. - -The trader told him he might make good Catholics among the Indians, but -he would never separate them from their own beliefs. "Their priests have -their own kind of mysteries. I don't know how much of it is real and how -much is made up. I remember something that happened when I was a little -fellow. One night a Pecos girl, with her baby in her arms, ran into the -kitchen here and begged my mother to hide her until after the festival, -for she'd seen signs between the _caciques_, and was sure they were -going to feed--her baby to the snake. Whether it was true or not, she -certainly believed it, poor thing, and Mother let her stay. It made a -great impression on me at the time." - - - - -BOOK FIVE - -_PADRE MARTINEZ_ - - - - -1 - -THE OLD ORDER - - -BISHOP LATOUR, with Jacinto, was riding through the mountains on his -first official visit to Taos--after Albuquerque, the largest and richest -parish in his diocese. Both the priest and people there were hostile to -Americans and jealous of interference. Any European, except a Spaniard, -was regarded as a gringo. The Bishop had let the parish alone, giving -their animosity plenty of time to cool. With Carson's help he had -informed himself fully about conditions there, and about the powerful -old priest, Antonio José Martinez, who was ruler in temporal as well as -in spiritual affairs. Indeed, before Father Latour's entrance upon the -scene, Martinez had been dictator to all the parishes in northern New -Mexico, and the native priests at Santa Fé were all of them under his -thumb. - -It was common talk that Padre Martinez had instigated the revolt of the -Taos Indians five years ago, when Bent, the American Governor, and a -dozen other white men were murdered and scalped. Seven of the Taos -Indians had been tried before a military court and hanged for the -murder, but no attempt had been made to call the plotting priest to -account. Indeed, Padre Martinez had managed to profit considerably by -the affair. - -The Indians who were sentenced to death had sent for their Padre and -begged him to get them out of the trouble he had got them into. Martinez -promised to save their lives if they would deed him their lands, near -the pueblo. This they did, and after the conveyance was properly -executed the Padre troubled himself no more about the matter, but went -to pay a visit at his native town of Abiquiu. In his absence the seven -Indians were hanged on the appointed day. Martinez now cultivated their -fertile farms, which made him quite the richest man in the parish. - -Father Latour had had polite correspondence with Martinez, but had met -him only once, on that memorable occasion when the Padre had ridden up -from Taos to strengthen the Santa Fé clergy in their refusal to -recognize the new Bishop. But he could see him as if that were only -yesterday,--the priest of Taos was not a man one would easily forget. -One could not have passed him on the street without feeling his great -physical force and his imperious will. Not much taller than the Bishop -in reality, he gave the impression of being an enormous man. His broad -high shoulders were like a bull buffalo's, his big head was set -defiantly on a thick neck, and the full-cheeked, richly coloured, -egg-shaped Spanish face--how vividly the Bishop remembered that face! It -was so unusual that he would be glad to see it again; a high, narrow -forehead, brilliant yellow eyes set deep in strong arches, and full, -florid cheeks,--not blank areas of smooth flesh, as in Anglo-Saxon -faces, but full of muscular activity, as quick to change with feeling as -any of his features. His mouth was the very assertion of violent, -uncurbed passions and tyrannical self-will; the full lips thrust out and -taut, like the flesh of animals distended by fear or desire. - -Father Latour judged that the day of lawless personal power was almost -over, even on the frontier, and this figure was to him already like -something picturesque and impressive, but really impotent, left over -from the past. - -The Bishop and Jacinto left the mountains behind them, the trail dropped -to a plain covered by clumps of very old sage-brush, with trunks as -thick as a man's leg. Jacinto pointed out a cloud of dust moving rapidly -toward them,--a cavalcade of a hundred men or more, Indians and -Mexicans, come out to welcome their Bishop with shouting and musketry. - -As the horsemen approached, Padre Martinez himself was easily -distinguishable--in buckskin breeches, high boots and silver spurs, a -wide Mexican hat on his head, and a great black cape wound about his -shoulders like a shepherd's plaid. He rode up to the Bishop and reining -in his black gelding, uncovered his head in a broad salutation, while -his escort surrounded the churchmen and fired their muskets into the -air. - -The two priests rode side by side into Los Ranchos de Taos, a little -town of yellow walls and winding streets and green orchards. The -inhabitants were all gathered in the square before the church. When the -Bishop dismounted to enter the church, the women threw their shawls on -the dusty pathway for him to walk upon, and as he passed through the -kneeling congregation, men and women snatched for his hand to kiss the -Episcopal ring. In his own country all this would have been highly -distasteful to Jean Marie Latour. Here, these demonstrations seemed a -part of the high colour that was in landscape and gardens, in the -flaming cactus and the gaudily decorated altars,--in the agonized -Christs and dolorous Virgins and the very human figures of the saints. -He had already learned that with this people religion was necessarily -theatrical. - -From Los Ranchos the party rode quickly across the grey plain into Taos -itself, to the priest's house, opposite the church, where a great throng -had collected. As the people sank on their knees, one boy, a gawky lad -of ten or twelve, remained standing, his mouth open and his hat on his -head. Padre Martinez reached over the heads of several kneeling women, -snatched off the boy's cap, and cuffed him soundly about the ears. When -Father Latour murmured in protest, the native priest said boldly: - -"He is my own son, Bishop, and it is time I taught him manners." - -So this was to be the tune, the Bishop reflected. His well-schooled -countenance did not change a shadow as he received this challenge, and -he passed on into the Padre's house. They went at once into Martinez's -study, where they found a young man lying on the floor, fast asleep. He -was a very large young man, very stout, lying on his back with his head -pillowed on a book, and as he breathed his bulk rose and fell amazingly. -He wore a Franciscan's brown gown, and his hair was clipped short. At -sight of the sleeper, Padre Martinez broke into a laugh and gave him a -no very gentle kick in the ribs. The fellow got to his feet in great -confusion, escaping through a door into the _patio_. - -"You there," the Padre called after him, "only young men who work hard -at night want to sleep in the day! You must have been studying by -candlelight. I'll give you an examination in theology!" This was greeted -by a titter of feminine laughter from the windows across the court, -where the fugitive took refuge behind a washing hung out to dry. He bent -his tall, full figure and disappeared between a pair of wet sheets. - -"That was my student, Trinidad," said Martinez, "a nephew of my old -friend Father Lucero, at Arroyo Hondo. He's a monk, but we want him to -take orders. We sent him to the Seminary in Durango, but he was either -too homesick or too stupid to learn anything, so I'm teaching him here. -We shall make a priest of him one day." - -Father Latour was told to consider the house his own, but he had no wish -to. The disorder was almost more than his fastidious taste could bear. -The Padre's study table was sprinkled with snuff, and piled so high with -books that they almost hid the crucifix hanging behind it. Books were -heaped on chairs and tables all over the house,--and the books and the -floors were deep in the dust of spring sand-storms. Father Martinez's -boots and hats lay about in corners, his coats and cassocks were hung on -pegs and draped over pieces of furniture. Yet the place seemed overrun -by serving-women, young and old,--and by large yellow cats with full -soft fur, of a special breed, apparently. They slept in the -window-sills, lay on the well-curb in the _patio_; the boldest came, -directly, to the supper-table, where their master fed them carelessly -from his plate. - -When they sat down to supper, the host introduced to the Bishop the -tall, stout young man with the protruding front, who had been asleep on -the floor. He said again that Trinidad Lucero was studying with him, and -was supposed to be his secretary,--adding that he spent most of his time -hanging about the kitchen and hindering the girls at their work. - -These remarks were made in the young man's presence, but did not -embarrass him at all. His whole attention was fixed upon the mutton -stew, which he began to devour with undue haste as soon as his plate was -put before him. The Bishop observed later that Trinidad was treated very -much like a poor relation or a servant. He was sent on errands, was told -without ceremony to fetch the Padre's boots, to bring wood for the fire, -to saddle his horse. Father Latour disliked his personality so much that -he could scarcely look at him. His fat face was irritatingly stupid, and -had the grey, oily look of soft cheeses. The corners of his mouth were -deep folds in plumpness, like the creases in a baby's legs, and the -steel rim of his spectacles, where it crossed his nose, was embedded in -soft flesh. He said not one word during supper, but ate as if he were -afraid of never seeing food again. When his attention left his plate for -a moment, it was fixed in the same greedy way upon the girl who served -the table--and who seemed to regard him with careless contempt. The -student gave the impression of being always stupefied by one form of -sensual disturbance or another. - -Padre Martinez, with a napkin tied round his neck to protect his -cassock, ate and drank generously. The Bishop found the food poor -enough, despite the many cooks, though the wine, which came from El Paso -del Norte, was very fair. - -During supper, his host asked the Bishop flatly if he considered -celibacy an essential condition of the priest's vocation. - -Father Latour replied merely that this question had been thrashed out -many centuries ago and decided once for all. - -"Nothing is decided once for all," Martinez declared fiercely. "Celibacy -may be all very well for the French clergy, but not for ours. St. -Augustine himself says it is better not to go against nature. I find -every evidence that in his old age he regretted having practised -continence." - -The Bishop said he would be interested to see the passages from which he -drew such conclusions, observing that he knew the writings of St. -Augustine fairly well. - -"I have the telling passages all written down somewhere. I will find -them before you go. You have probably read them with a sealed mind. -Celibate priests lose their perceptions. No priest can experience -repentance and forgiveness of sin unless he himself falls into sin. -Since concupiscence is the most common form of temptation, it is better -for him to know something about it. The soul cannot be humbled by fasts -and prayer; it must be broken by mortal sin to experience forgiveness of -sin and rise to a state of grace. Otherwise, religion is nothing but -dead logic." - -"This is a subject upon which we must confer later, and at some length," -said the Bishop quietly. "I shall reform these practices throughout my -diocese as rapidly as possible. I hope it will be but a short time until -there is not a priest left who does not keep all the vows he took when -he bound himself to the service of the altar." - -The swarthy Padre laughed, and threw off the big cat which had mounted -to his shoulder. "It will keep you busy, Bishop. Nature has got the -start of you here. But for all that, our native priests are more devout -than your French Jesuits. We have a living Church here, not a dead arm -of the European Church. Our religion grew out of the soil, and has its -own roots. We pay a filial respect to the person of the Holy Father, but -Rome has no authority here. We do not require aid from the Propaganda, -and we resent its interference. The Church the Franciscan Fathers -planted here was cut off; this is the second growth, and is indigenous. -Our people are the most devout left in the world. If you blast their -faith by European formalities, they will become infidels and -profligates." - -To this eloquence the Bishop returned blandly that he had not come to -deprive the people of their religion, but that he would be compelled to -deprive some of the priests of their parishes if they did not change -their way of life. - -Father Martinez filled his glass and replied with perfect good humour. -"You cannot deprive me of mine, Bishop. Try it! I will organize my own -church. You can have your French priest of Taos, and I will have the -people!" - -With this the Padre left the table and stood warming his back at the -fire, his cassock pulled up about his waist to expose his trousers to -the blaze. "You are a young man, my Bishop," he went on, rolling his big -head back and looking up at the well-smoked roof poles. "And you know -nothing about Indians or Mexicans. If you try to introduce European -civilization here and change our old ways, to interfere with the secret -dances of the Indians, let us say, or abolish the bloody rites of the -Penitentes, I foretell an early death for you. I advise you to study our -native traditions before you begin your reforms. You are among barbarous -people, my Frenchman, between two savage races. The dark things -forbidden by your Church are a part of Indian religion. You cannot -introduce French fashions here." - -At this moment the student, Trinidad, got up quietly, and after an -obsequious bow to the Bishop, went with soft, escaping tread toward the -kitchen. When his brown skirt had disappeared through the door, Father -Latour turned sharply to his host. - -"Martinez, I consider it very unseemly to talk in this loose fashion -before young men, especially a young man who is studying for the -priesthood. Furthermore, I cannot see why a young man of this calibre -should be encouraged to take orders. He will never hold a parish in my -diocese." - -Padre Martinez laughed and showed his long, yellow teeth. Laughing did -not become him; his teeth were too large--distinctly vulgar. "Oh, -Trinidad will go to Arroyo Hondo as curate to his uncle, who is growing -old. He's a very devout fellow, Trinidad. You ought to see him in -Passion Week. He goes up to Abiquiu and becomes another man; carries the -heaviest crosses to the highest mountains, and takes more scourging than -anyone. He comes back here with his back so full of cactus spines that -the girls have to pick him like a chicken." - -Father Latour was tired, and went to his room soon after supper. The -bed, upon examination, seemed clean and comfortable, but he felt -uncertain of its surroundings. He did not like the air of this house. -After he retired, the clatter of dish-washing and the giggling of women -across the _patio_ kept him awake a long while; and when that ceased, -Father Martinez began snoring in some chamber near by. He must have left -his door open into the _patio_, for the adobe partitions were thick -enough to smother sound otherwise. The Padre snored like an enraged -bull, until the Bishop decided to go forth and find his door and close -it. He arose, lit his candle, and opened his own door in half-hearted -resolution. As the night wind blew into the room, a little dark shadow -fluttered from the wall across the floor; a mouse, perhaps. But no, it -was a bunch of woman's hair that had been indolently tossed into a -corner when some slovenly female toilet was made in this room. This -discovery annoyed the Bishop exceedingly. - - -High Mass was at eleven the next morning, the parish priest officiating -and the Bishop in the Episcopal chair. He was well pleased with the -church of Taos. The building was clean and in good repair, the -congregation large and devout. The delicate lace, snowy linen, and -burnished brass on the altar told of a devoted Altar Guild. The boys who -served at the altar wore rich smocks of hand-made lace over their -scarlet surplices. The Bishop had never heard the Mass more impressively -sung than by Father Martinez. The man had a beautiful baritone voice, -and he drew from some deep well of emotional power. Nothing in the -service was slighted, every phrase and gesture had its full value. At -the moment of the Elevation the dark priest seemed to give his whole -force, his swarthy body and all its blood, to that lifting-up. Rightly -guided, the Bishop reflected, this Mexican might have been a great man. -He had an altogether compelling personality, a disturbing, mysterious -magnetic power. - -After the confirmation service, Father Martinez had horses brought round -and took the Bishop out to see his farms and live-stock. He took him all -over his ranches down in the rich bottom lands between Taos and the -Indian pueblo which, as Father Latour knew, had come into his possession -from the seven Indians who were hanged. Martinez referred carelessly to -the Bent massacre as they rode along. He boasted that there had never -been trouble afoot in New Mexico that wasn't started in Taos. - -They stopped just west of the pueblo a little before sunset,--a pueblo -very different from all the others the Bishop had visited; two large -communal houses, shaped like pyramids, gold-coloured in the afternoon -light, with the purple mountain lying just behind them. Gold-coloured -men in white burnouses came out on the stairlike flights of roofs, and -stood still as statues, apparently watching the changing light on the -mountain. There was a religious silence over the place; no sound at all -but the bleating of goats coming home through clouds of golden dust. - -These two houses, the Padre told him, had been continuously occupied by -this tribe for more than a thousand years. Coronado's men found them -there, and described them as a superior kind of Indian, handsome and -dignified in bearing, dressed in deerskin coats and trousers like those -of Europeans. - -Though the mountain was timbered, its lines were so sharp that it had -the sculptured look of naked mountains like the Sandias. The general -growth on its sides was evergreen, but the canyons and ravines were -wooded with aspens, so that the shape of every depression was painted on -the mountain-side, light green against the dark, like symbols; -serpentine, crescent, half-circles. This mountain and its ravines had -been the seat of old religious ceremonies, honey-combed with noiseless -Indian life, the repository of Indian secrets, for many centuries, the -Padre remarked. - -"And some place in there, you may be sure, they keep Popé's estufa, but -no white man will ever see it. I mean the estufa where Popé sealed -himself up for four years and never saw the light of day, when he was -planning the revolt of 1680. I suppose you know all about that outbreak, -Bishop Latour?" - -"Something, of course, from the Martyrology. But I did not know that it -originated in Taos." - -"Haven't I just told you that all the trouble there ever was in New -Mexico originated in Taos?" boasted the Padre. "Popé was born a San -Juan Indian, but so was Napoleon a Corsican. He operated from Taos." - -Padre Martinez knew his country, a country which had no written -histories. He gave the Bishop much the best account he had heard of the -great Indian revolt of 1680, which added such a long chapter to the -Martyrology of the New World, when all the Spaniards were killed or -driven out, and there was not one European left alive north of El Paso -del Norte. - -That night after supper, as his host sat taking snuff, Father Latour -questioned him closely and learned something about the story of his -life. - -Martinez was born directly under that solitary blue mountain on the -sky-line west of Taos, shaped like a pyramid with the apex sliced off, -in Abiquiu. It was one of the oldest Mexican settlements in the -territory, surrounded by canyons so deep and ranges so rugged that it -was practically cut off from intercourse with the outside world. Being -so solitary, its people were sombre in temperament, fierce and fanatical -in religion, celebrated the Passion Week by cross-bearings and bloody -scourgings. - -Antonio José Martinez grew up there, without learning to read or write, -married at twenty, and lost his wife and child when he was twenty-three. -After his marriage he had learned to read from the parish priest, and -when he became a widower he decided to study for the priesthood. Taking -his clothes and the little money he got from the sale of his household -goods, he started on horseback for Durango, in Old Mexico. There he -entered the Seminary and began a life of laborious study. - -The Bishop could imagine what it meant for a young man who had not -learned to read until long after adolescence, to undergo a severe -academic training. He found Martinez deeply versed, not only in the -Church Fathers, but in the Latin and Spanish classics. After six years -at the Seminary, Martinez had returned to his native Abiquiu as priest -of the parish church there. He was passionately attached to that old -village under the pyramidal mountain. All the while he had been in Taos, -half a lifetime now, he made periodic pilgrimages on horseback back to -Abiquiu, as if the flavour of his own yellow earth were medicine to his -soul. Naturally he hated the Americans. The American occupation meant -the end of men like himself. He was a man of the old order, a son of -Abiquiu, and his day was over. - - -On his departure from Taos, the Bishop went out of his way to make a -call at Kit Carson's ranch house. Carson, he knew, was away buying -sheep, but Father Latour wished to see the Señora Carson to thank her -again for her kindness to poor Magdalena, and to tell her of the woman's -happy and devoted life with the Sisters in their school at Santa Fé. - -The Señora received him with that quiet but unabashed hospitality which -is a common grace in Mexican households. She was a tall woman, slender, -with drooping shoulders and lustrous black eyes and hair. Though she -could not read, both her face and conversation were intelligent. To the -Bishop's thinking, she was handsome; her countenance showed that -discipline of life which he admired. She had a cheerful disposition, -too, and a pleasant sense of humour. It was possible to talk -confidentially to her. She said she hoped he had been comfortable in -Padre Martinez's house, with an inflection which told that she much -doubted it, and she laughed a little when he confessed that he had been -annoyed by the presence of Trinidad Lucero. - -"Some people say he is Father Lucero's son," she said with a shrug. "But -I do not think so. More likely one of Padre Martinez's. Did you hear -what happened to him at Abiquiu last year, in Passion Week? He tried to -be like the Saviour, and had himself crucified. Oh, not with nails! He -was tied upon a cross with ropes, to hang there all night; they do that -sometimes at Abiquiu, it is a very old-fashioned place. But he is so -heavy that after he had hung there a few hours, the cross fell over with -him, and he was very much humiliated. Then he had himself tied to a post -and said he would bear as many stripes as our Saviour--six thousand, as -was revealed to St. Bridget. But before they had given him a hundred, he -fainted. They scourged him with cactus whips, and his back was so -poisoned that he was sick up there for a long while. This year they sent -word that they did not want him at Abiquiu, so he had to keep Holy Week -here, and everybody laughed at him." - -Father Latour asked the Señora to tell him frankly whether she thought -he could put a stop to the extravagances of the Penitential Brotherhood. -She smiled and shook her head. "I often say to my husband, I hope you -will not try to do that. It would only set the people against you. The -old people have need of their old customs; and the young ones will go -with the times." - -As the Bishop was taking his leave, she put into his saddle-bags a -beautiful piece of lace-work for Magdalena. "She will not be likely to -use it for herself, but she will be glad to have it to give to the -Sisters. That brutal man left her nothing. After he was hung, there was -nothing to sell but his gun and one burro. That was why he was going to -take the risk of killing two Padres for their mules--and for spite -against religion, maybe! Magdalena said he had often threatened to kill -the priest at Mora." - - -At Santa Fé the Bishop found Father Vaillant awaiting him. They had not -seen each other since Easter, and there were many things to be -discussed. The vigour and zeal of Bishop Latour's administration had -already been recognized at Rome, and he had lately received a letter -from Cardinal Fransoni, Prefect of the Propaganda, announcing that the -vicarate of Santa Fé had been formally raised to a diocese. By the same -long-delayed post came an invitation from the Cardinal, urgently -requesting Father Latour's presence at important conferences at the -Vatican during the following year. Though all these matters must be -taken up in their turn between the Bishop and his Vicar-General, Father -Joseph had undoubtedly come up from Albuquerque at this particular time -because of a lively curiosity to hear how the Bishop had been received -in Taos. - -Seated in the study in their old cassocks, with the candles lighted on -the table between them, they spent a long evening. - -"For the present," Father Latour remarked, "I shall do nothing to change -the curious situation at Taos. It is not expedient to interfere. The -church is strong, the people are devout. No matter what the conduct of -the priest has been, he has built up a strong organization, and his -people are devotedly loyal to him." - -"But can he be disciplined, do you think?" - -"Oh, there is no question of discipline! He has been a little potentate -too long. His people would assuredly support him against a French -Bishop. For the present I shall be blind to what I do not like there." - -"But Jean," Father Joseph broke out in agitation, "the man's life is an -open scandal, one hears of it everywhere. Only a few weeks ago I was -told a pitiful story of a Mexican girl carried off in one of the Indian -raids on the Costella valley. She was a child of eight when she was -carried away, and was fifteen when she was found and ransomed. During -all that time the pious girl had preserved her virginity by a succession -of miracles. She had a medal from the shrine of Our Lady of Guadelupe -tied round her neck, and she said such prayers as she had been taught. -Her chastity was threatened many times, but always some unexpected event -averted the catastrophe. After she was found and sent back to some -relatives living in Arroyo Hondo, she was so devout that she wished to -become a religious. She was debauched by this Martinez, and he married -her to one of his peons. She is now living on one of his farms." - -"Yes, Christobal told me that story," said the Bishop with a shrug. "But -Padre Martinez is getting too old to play the part of Don Juan much -longer. I do not wish to lose the parish of Taos in order to punish its -priest, my friend. I have no priest strong enough to put in his place. -You are the only man who could meet the situation there, and you are at -Albuquerque. A year from now I shall be in Rome, and there I hope to get -a Spanish missionary who will take over the parish of Taos. Only a -Spaniard would be welcomed there, I think." - -"You are doubtless right," said Father Joseph. "I am often too hasty in -my judgments. I may do very badly for you while you are in Europe. For I -suppose I am to leave my dear Albuquerque, and come to Santa Fé while -you are gone?" - -"Assuredly. They will love you all the more for lacking you awhile. I -hope to bring some more hardy Auvergnats back with me, young men from -our own Seminary, and I am afraid I must put one of them in Albuquerque. -You have been there long enough. You have done all that is necessary. I -need you here, Father Joseph. As it is now, one of us must ride seventy -miles whenever we wish to converse about anything." - -Father Vaillant sighed. "Ah, I supposed it would come! You will snatch -me from Albuquerque as you did from Sandusky. When I went there -everybody was my enemy, now everybody is my friend; therefore it is time -to go." Father Vaillant took off his glasses, folded them, and put them -in their case, which act always announced his determination to retire. -"So a year from now you will be in Rome. Well, I had rather be among my -people in Albuquerque, that I can say honestly. But Clermont,--there I -envy you. I should like to see my own mountains again. At least you will -see all my family and bring me word of them, and you can bring me the -vestments that my dear sister Philomène and her nuns have been making -for me these three years. I shall be very glad to have them." He rose, -and took up one of the candles. "And when you leave Clermont, Jean, put -a few chestnuts in your pocket for me!" - - - - -2 - -THE MISER - - -IN February Bishop Latour once more set out on horseback over the Santa -Fé trail, this time with Rome as his objective. He was absent for -nearly a year, and when he returned he brought with him four young -priests from his own Seminary of Montferrand, and a Spanish priest, -Father Taladrid, whom he had found in Rome, and who was at once sent to -Taos. At the Bishop's suggestion, Padre Martinez formally resigned his -parish, with the understanding that he was still to celebrate Mass upon -solemn occasions. Not only did he avail himself of this privilege, but -he continued to perform all marriages and burial services and to dictate -the lives of the parishioners. Very soon he and Father Taladrid were at -open war. - -When the Bishop, unable to compose their differences, supported the new -priest, Father Martinez and his friend Father Lucero, of Arroyo Hondo, -mutinied; flatly refused to submit, and organized a church of their own. -This, they declared, was the old Holy Catholic Church of Mexico, while -the Bishop's church was an American institution. In both towns the -greater part of the population went over to the schismatic church, -though some pious Mexicans, in great perplexity, attended Mass at both. -Father Martinez printed a long and eloquent Proclamation (which very few -of his parishioners could read) giving an historical justification for -his schism, and denying the obligation of celibacy for the priesthood. -As both he and Father Lucero were well on in years, this particular -clause could be of little benefit to anyone in their new organization -except Trinidad. After the two old priests went off into schism, one of -their first solemn acts was to elevate Father Lucero's nephew to the -priesthood, and he acted as curate to them both, swinging back and forth -between Taos and Arroyo Hondo. - -The schismatic church at least accomplished the rejuvenation of the two -rebellious priests at its head, and far and wide revived men's interest -in them,--though they had always furnished their people with plenty to -talk about. Ever since they were young men with adjoining parishes, they -had been friends, cronies, rivals, sometimes bitter enemies. But their -quarrels could never keep them apart for long. - -Old Marino Lucero had not one trait in common with Martinez, except the -love of authority. He had been a miser from his youth, and lived down in -the sunken world of Arroyo Hondo in the barest poverty, though he was -supposed to be very rich. He used to boast that his house was as poor as -a burro's stable. His bed, his crucifix, and his bean-pot were his -furniture. He kept no live-stock but one poor mule, on which he rode -over to Taos to quarrel with his friend Martinez, or to get a solid -dinner when he was hungry. In his _casa_ every day was Friday--unless -one of his neighbour women cooked a chicken and brought it in to him out -of pure compassion. For his people liked him. He was grasping, but not -oppressive, and he wrung more pesos out of Arroyo Seco and Questa than -out of his own arroyo. Thrift is such a rare quality among Mexicans that -they find it very amusing; his people loved to tell how he never bought -anything, but picked up old brooms after housewives had thrown them -away, and that he wore Padre Martinez's garments after the Padre would -have them no longer, though they were so much too big for him. One of -the priests' fiercest quarrels had come about because Martinez gave some -of his old clothes to a monk from Mexico who was studying at his house, -and who had not wherewithal to cover himself as winter came on. - -The two priests had always talked shamelessly about each other. All -Martinez's best stories were about Lucero, and all Lucero's were about -Martinez. - -"You see how it is," Padre Lucero would say to the young men at a -wedding party, "my way is better than old José Martinez's. His nose and -chin are getting to be close neighbours now, and a petticoat is not much -good to him any more. But I can still rise upright at the sight of a -dollar. With a new piece of money in my hand I am happier than ever; and -what can he do with a pretty girl but regret?" - -Avarice, he assured them, was the one passion that grew stronger and -sweeter in old age. He had the lust for money as Martinez had for women, -and they had never been rivals in the pursuit of their pleasures. After -Trinidad was ordained and went to stay with his uncle, Father Lucero -complained that he had formed gross habits living with Martinez, and was -eating him out of house and home. Father Martinez told with delight how -Trinidad sponged upon the parish at Arroyo Hondo, and went about poking -his nose into one bean-pot after another. - -When the Bishop could no longer remain deaf to the rebellion, he sent -Father Vaillant over to Taos to publish the warning for three weeks and -exhort the two priests to renounce their heresy. On the fourth Sunday -Father Joseph, who complained that he was always sent "_à fouetter les -chats_," solemnly read the letter in which the Bishop stripped Father -Martinez of the rights and privileges of the priesthood. On the -afternoon of the same day, he rode over to Arroyo Hondo, eighteen miles -away, and read a similar letter of excommunication against Father -Lucero. - -Father Martinez continued at the head of his schismatic church until, -after a short illness, he died and was buried in schism, by Father -Lucero. Soon after this, Father Lucero himself fell into a decline. But -even after he was ailing he performed a feat which became one of the -legends of the country-side,--killed a robber in a midnight scuffle. - -A wandering teamster who had been discharged from a wagon train for -theft, was picking up a living over in Taos and there heard the stories -about Father Lucero's hidden riches. He came to Arroyo Hondo to rob the -old man. Father Lucero was a light sleeper, and hearing stealthy sounds -in the middle of the night, he reached for the carving-knife he kept -hidden under his mattress and sprang upon the intruder. They began -fighting in the dark, and though the thief was a young man and armed, -the old priest stabbed him to death and then, covered with blood, ran -out to arouse the town. The neighbours found the Padre's chamber like a -slaughter-house, his victim hang dead beside the hole he had dug. They -were amazed at what the old man had been able to do. - -But from the shock of that night Father Lucero never recovered. He -wasted away so rapidly that his people had the horse doctor come from -Taos to look at him. This veterinary was a Yankee who had been -successful in treating men as well as horses, but he said he could do -nothing for Father Lucero; he believed he had an internal tumour or a -cancer. - -Padre Lucero died repentant, and Father Vaillant, who had pronounced his -excommunication, was the one to reconcile him to the Church. The Vicar -was in Taos on business for the Bishop, staying with Kit Carson and the -Señora. They were all sitting at supper one evening during a heavy -rain-storm, when a horseman rode up to the _portale_. Carson went out to -receive him. The visitor he brought in with him was Trinidad Lucero, who -took off his rubber coat and stood in a full-skirted cassock of Arroyo -Hondo make, a crucifix about his neck, seeming to fill the room with his -size and importance. After bowing ceremoniously to the Señora, he -addressed himself to Father Vaillant in his best English, speaking -slowly in his thick felty voice. - -"I am the only nephew of Padre Lucero. My uncle is verra seek and soon -to die. She has vomit the blood." He dropped his eyes. - -"Speak to me in your own language, man!" cried Father Joseph. "I can at -least do more with Spanish than you can with English. Now tell me what -you have to say of your uncle's condition." - -Trinidad gave some account of his uncle's illness, repeating solemnly -the phrase, "She has vomit the blood," which he seemed to find -impressive. The sick man wished to see Father Vaillant, and begged that -he would come to him and give him the Sacrament. - -Carson urged the Vicar to wait until morning, as the road down into "the -Hondo" would be badly washed by rain and dangerous to go over in the -dark. But Father Vaillant said if the road were bad he could go down on -foot. Excusing himself to the Señora Carson, he went to his room to put -on his riding-clothes and get his saddle-bags. Trinidad, upon -invitation, sat down at the empty place and made the most of his -opportunity. The host saddled Father Vaillant's mule, and the Vicar rode -away, with Trinidad for guide. - -Not that he needed a guide to Arroyo Hondo, it was a place especially -dear to him, and he was always glad to find a pretext for going there. -How often he had ridden over there on fine days in summer, or in early -spring, before the green was out, when the whole country was pink and -blue and yellow, like a coloured map. - -One approached over a sage-brush plain that appeared to run level and -unbroken to the base of the distant mountains; then without warning, one -suddenly found oneself upon the brink of a precipice, of a chasm in the -earth over two hundred feet deep, the sides sheer cliffs, but cliffs of -earth, not rock. Drawing rein at the edge, one looked down into a sunken -world of green fields and gardens, with a pink adobe town, at the bottom -of this great ditch. The men and mules walking about down there, or -plowing the fields, looked like the figures of a child's Noah's ark. -Down the middle of the arroyo, through the sunken fields and pastures, -flowed a rushing stream which came from the high mountains. Its original -source was so high, indeed, that by merely laying an open wooden trough -up the opposite side of the arroyo, the Mexicans conveyed the water to -the plateau at the top. This sluice was laid in sections that zigzagged -up the face of the cliff. Father Vaillant always stopped to watch the -water rushing up the side of the precipice like a thing alive; an -ever-ascending ladder of clear water, gurgling and clouding into silver -as it climbed. Only once before, he used to tell the natives, in Italy, -had he seen water run up hill like that. - -The water thus diverted was but a tiny thread of the full creek; the -main stream ran down the arroyo over a white rock bottom, with green -willows and deep hay grass and brilliant wild flowers on its banks. -Evening primroses, the fireweed, and butterfly weed grew to a tropical -size and brilliance there among the sedges. - -But this was the first time Father Vaillant had ever gone down into the -Hondo after dark, and at the edge of the cliff he decided not to put -Contento to so cruel a test. "He can do it," he said to Trinidad, "but I -will not make him." He dismounted and went on foot down the steep -winding trail. - -They reached Father Lucero's house before midnight. Half the population -of the town seemed to be in attendance, and the place was lit up as if -for a festival. The sick man's chamber was full of Mexican women, -sitting about on the floor, wrapped in their black shawls, saying their -prayers with lighted candles before them. One could scarcely step for -the candles. - -Father Vaillant beckoned to a woman he knew well, Conçeption Gonzales, -and asked her what was the meaning of this. She whispered that the dying -Padre would have it so. His sight was growing dim, and he kept calling -for more lights. All his life, Conçeption sighed, he had been so saving -of candles, and had mostly done with a pine splinter in the evenings. - -In the corner, on the bed, Father Lucero was groaning and tossing, one -man rubbing his feet, and another wringing cloths out of hot water and -putting them on his stomach to dull the pain. Señora Gonzales whispered -that the sick man had been gnawing the sheets for pain; she had brought -over her best ones, and they were chewed to lacework across the top. - -Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, "Get away from the bed a -little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles -blind me." - -But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor, -the sick man called, "No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief -will come, and I will have nothing left." - -The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat -down again. - -Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked -nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They -burned up at Father Joseph,--great, black, glittering, distrustful eyes. -On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than -Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph's hand with a grip surprisingly -strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the -chest. - -"Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that -the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to -hear." Father Lucero's voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his -parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. "Señor Vicario, -you remember Padre Martinez? You ought to, for you served him as badly -as you did me. Now listen:" - -Father Lucero related that Martinez, before his death, had entrusted to -him a certain sum of money to be spent in masses for the repose of his -soul, these to be offered at his native church in Abiquiu. Lucero had -not used the money as he promised, but had buried it under the dirt -floor of this room, just below the large crucifix that hung on the wall -yonder. - -At this point Father Vaillant again signalled to the women to withdraw, -but as they took up their candles, Father Lucero sat up in his -night-shirt and cried, "Stay as you are! Are you going to run away and -leave me with a stranger? I trust him no more than I do you! Oh, why did -God not make some way for a man to protect his own after death? Alive, I -can do it with my knife, old as I am. But after?"---- - -The Señora Gonzales soothed Father Lucero, persuaded him to lie back -upon his pillows and tell them what he wanted them to do. He explained -that this money which he had taken in trust from Martinez was to be sent -to Abiquiu and used as the Padre had wished. Under the crucifix, and -under the floor beneath the bed on which he was lying, they would find -his own savings. One third of his hoard was for Trinidad. The rest was -to be spent in masses for his soul, and they were to be celebrated in -the old church of San Miguel in Santa Fé. - -Father Vaillant assured him that all his wishes should be scrupulously -carried out, and now it was time for him to dismiss the cares of this -world and prepare his mind to receive the Sacrament. - -"All in good time. But a man does not let go of this world so easily. -Where is Conçeption Gonzales? Come here, my daughter. See to it that -the money is taken up from under the floor while I am still in this -chamber, before my body is cold, that it is counted in the presence of -all these women, and the sum set down in writing." At this point, the -old man started, as with a new hope. "And Christobal, he is the man! -Christobal Carson must be here to count it and set it down. He is a just -man. Trinidad, you fool, why did you not bring Christobal?" - -Father Vaillant was scandalized. "Unless you compose yourself, Father -Lucero, and fix your thoughts upon Heaven, I shall refuse to administer -the Sacrament. In your present state of mind, it would be a sacrilege." - -The old man folded his hands and closed his eyes in assent. Father -Vaillant went into the adjoining room to put on his cassock and stole, -and in his absence Conçeption Gonzales covered a small table by the bed -with one of her own white napkins and placed upon it two wax candles, -and a cup of water for the ministrant's hands. Father Vaillant came back -in his vestments, with his pyx and basin of holy water, and began -sprinkling the bed and the watchers, repeating the antiphon, _Asperges -me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor_. The women stole away, leaving their -lights upon the floor. Father Lucero made his confession, renouncing his -heresy and expressing contrition, after which he received the Sacrament. - -The ceremony calmed the tormented man, and he lay quiet with his hands -folded on his breast. The women returned and sat murmuring prayers as -before. The rain drove against the window panes, the wind made a hollow -sound as it sucked down through the deep arroyo. Some of the watchers -were drooping from weariness, but not one showed any wish to go home. -Watching beside a death-bed was not a hardship for them, but a -privilege,--in the case of a dying priest it was a distinction. - -In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social -importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs -ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul -made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness -through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there -was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he -alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and -on his features would fall some light or shadow from beyond. The "Last -Words" of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in -gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man and woman were -listened for and treasured by their neighbours and kinsfolk. These -sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and -pondered by those who must one day go the same road. - -The stillness of the death chamber was suddenly broken when Trinidad -Lucero knelt down before the crucifix on the wall to pray. His uncle, -though all thought him asleep, began to struggle and cry out, "A thief! -Help, help!" Trinidad retired quickly, but after that the old man lay -with one eye open, and no one dared go near the crucifix. - -About an hour before day-break the Padre's breathing became so painful -that two of the men got behind him and lifted his pillows. The women -whispered that his face was changing, and they brought their candles -nearer, kneeling close beside his bed. His eyes were alive and had -perception in them. He rolled his head to one side and lay looking -intently down into the candlelight, without blinking, while his -features sharpened. Several times his lips twitched back over his teeth. -The watchers held their breath, feeling sure that he would speak before -he passed,--and he did. After a facial spasm that was like a sardonic -smile, and a clicking of breath in his mouth, their Padre spoke like a -horse for the last time: - -"_Comete tu cola, Martinez, comete tu cola_!" (Eat your tail, Martinez, -eat your tail!) Almost at once he died in a convulsion. - -After day-break Trinidad went forth declaring (and the Mexican women -confirmed him) that at the moment of death Father Lucero had looked into -the other world and beheld Padre Martinez in torment. As long as the -Christians who were about that death-bed lived, the story was whispered -in Arroyo Hondo. - - -When the floor of the priest's house was taken up, according to his last -instructions, people came from as far as Taos and Santa Cruz and Mora to -see the buckskin bags of gold and silver coin that were buried beneath -it. Spanish coins, French, American, English, some of them very old. -When it was at length conveyed to a Government mint and examined, it was -valued at nearly twenty thousand dollars in American money. A great sum -for one old priest to have scraped together in a country parish down at -the bottom of a ditch. - - - - -BOOK SIX - -_DOÑA ISABELLA_ - - - - -1 - -DON ANTONIO - - -BISHOP LATOUR had one very keen worldly ambition; to build in Santa Fé -a cathedral which would be worthy of a setting naturally beautiful. As -he cherished this wish and meditated upon it, he came to feel that such -a building might be a continuation of himself and his purpose, a -physical body full of his aspirations after he had passed from the -scene. Early in his administration he began setting aside something from -his meagre resources for a cathedral fund. In this he was assisted by -certain of the rich Mexican _rancheros_, but by no one so much as by Don -Antonio Olivares. - -Antonio Olivares was the most intelligent and prosperous member of a -large family of brothers and cousins, and he was for that time and place -a man of wide experience, a man of the world. He had spent the greater -part of his life in New Orleans and El Paso del Norte, but he returned -to live in Santa Fé several years after Bishop Latour took up his -duties there. He brought with him his American wife and a wagon train of -furniture, and settled down to spend his declining years in the old -ranch house just east of the town where he was born and had grown up. He -was then a man of sixty. In early manhood he had lost his first wife; -after he went to New Orleans he had married a second time, a Kentucky -girl who had grown up among her relatives in Louisiana. She was pretty -and accomplished, had been educated at a French convent, and had done -much to Europeanize her husband. The refinement of his dress and -manners, and his lavish style of living, provoked half-contemptuous envy -among his brothers and their friends. - -Olivares's wife, Doña Isabella, was a devout Catholic, and at their -house the French priests were always welcome and were most cordially -entertained. The Señora Olivares had made a pleasant place of the -rambling adobe building, with its great courtyard and gateway, carved -joists and beams, fine herring-bone ceilings and snug fire-places. She -was a gracious hostess, and though no longer very young, she was still -attractive to the eye; a slight woman, spirited, quick in movement, with -a delicate blonde complexion which she had successfully guarded in -trying climates, and fair hair--a little silvered, and perhaps worn in -too many puffs and ringlets for the sharpening outline of her face. She -spoke French well, Spanish lamely, played the harp, and sang agreeably. - -Certainly it was a great piece of luck for Father Latour and Father -Vaillant, who lived so much among peons and Indians and rough -frontiersmen, to be able to converse in their own tongue now and then -with a cultivated woman; to sit by that hospitable fireside, in rooms -enriched by old mirrors and engravings and upholstered chairs, where the -windows had clean curtains, and the sideboard and cupboards were stocked -with plate and Belgian glass. It was refreshing to spend an evening with -a couple who were interested in what was going on in the outside world, -to eat a good dinner and drink good wine, and listen to music. Father -Joseph, that man of inconsistencies, had a pleasing tenor voice, true -though not strong. Madame Olivares liked to sing old French songs with -him. She was a trifle vain, it must be owned, and when she sang at all, -insisted upon singing in three languages, never forgetting her husband's -favourites, "La Paloma" and "La Golandrina," and "My Nelly Was A Lady." -The negro melodies of Stephen Foster had already travelled to the -frontier, going along the river highways, not in print, but passed on -from one humble singer to another. - -Don Antonio was a large man, heavy, full at the belt, a trifle bald, and -very slow of speech. But his eyes were lively, and the yellow spark in -them was often most perceptible when he was quite silent. It was -interesting to observe him after dinner, settled in one of his big -chairs from New Orleans, a cigar between his long golden-brown fingers, -watching his wife at her harp. - -There was gossip about the lady in Santa Fé, of course, since she had -retained her beautiful complexion and her husband's devoted regard for -so many years. The Americans and the Olivares brothers said she dressed -much too youthfully, which was perhaps true, and that she had lovers in -New Orleans and El Paso del Norte. Her nephews-in-law went so far as to -declare that she was enamoured of the Mexican boy the Olivares had -brought up from San Antonio to play the banjo for them,--they both loved -music, and this boy, Pablo, was a magician with his instrument. All -sorts of stories went out from the kitchen; that Doña Isabella had a -whole chamber full of dresses so grand that she never wore them here at -all; that she took gold from her husband's pockets and hid it under the -floor of her room; that she gave him love potions and herb-teas to -increase his ardour. This gossip did not mean that her servants were -disloyal, but rather that they were proud of their mistress. - -Olivares, who read the newspapers, though they were weeks old when he -got them, who liked cigars better than cigarettes, and French wine -better than whisky, had little in common with his younger brothers. Next -to his old friend Manuel Chavez, the two French priests were the men in -Santa Fé whose company he most enjoyed, and he let them see it. He was -a man who cherished his friends. He liked to call at the Bishop's house -to advise him about the care of his young orchard, or to leave a bottle -of home-made cherry brandy for Father Joseph. It was Olivares who -presented Father Latour with the silver hand-basin and pitcher and -toilet accessories which gave him so much satisfaction all the rest of -his life. There were good silversmiths among the Mexicans of Santa Fé, -and Don Antonio had his own toilet-set copied in hammered silver for his -friend. Doña Isabella once remarked that her husband always gave Father -Vaillant something good for the palate, and Father Latour something good -for the eye. - -This couple had one child, a daughter, the Señorita Inez, born long ago -and still unmarried. Indeed, it was generally understood that she would -never marry. Though she had not taken the veil, her life was that of a -nun. She was very plain and had none of her mother's social graces, but -she had a beautiful contralto voice. She sang in the Cathedral choir in -New Orleans, and taught singing in a convent there. She came to visit -her parents only once after they settled in Santa Fé, and she was a -somewhat sombre figure in that convivial household. Doña Isabella -seemed devotedly attached to her, but afraid of displeasing her. While -Inez was there, her mother dressed very plainly, pinned back the little -curls that hung over her right ear, and the two women went to church -together all day long. - -Antonio Olivares was deeply interested in the Bishop's dream of a -cathedral. For one thing, he saw that Father Latour had set his heart on -building one, and Olivares was the sort of man who liked to help a -friend accomplish the desire of his heart. Furthermore, he had a deep -affection for his native town, he had travelled and seen fine churches, -and he wished there might some day be one in Santa Fé. Many a night he -and Father Latour talked of it by the fire; discussed the site, the -design, the building stone, the cost and the grave difficulties of -raising money. It was the Bishop's hope to begin work upon the building -in 1860, ten years after his appointment to the Bishopric. One night, at -a long-remembered New Year's party in his house, Olivares announced in -the presence of his guests that before the new year was gone he meant to -give to the Cathedral fund a sum sufficient to enable Father Latour to -carry out his purpose. - -That supper party at the Olivares' was memorable because of this pledge, -and because it marked a parting of old friends. Doña Isabella was -entertaining the officers at the Post, two of whom had received orders -to leave Santa Fé. The popular Commandant was called back to -Washington, the young lieutenant of cavalry, an Irish Catholic, lately -married and very dear to Father Latour, was to be sent farther west. -(Before the next New Year's Day came round he was killed in Indian -warfare on the plains of Arizona.) - -But that night the future troubled nobody; the house was full of light -and music, the air warm with that simple hospitality of the frontier, -where people dwell in exile, far from their kindred, where they lead -rough lives and seldom meet together for pleasure. Kit Carson, who -greatly admired Madame Olivares, had come the two days' journey from -Taos to be present that night, and brought along his gentle half-breed -daughter, lately home from a convent school in St. Louis. On this -occasion he wore a handsome buckskin coat, embroidered in silver, with -brown velvet cuffs and collar. The officers from the Fort were in dress -uniform, the host as usual wore a broadcloth frock-coat. His wife was in -a hoop-skirt, a French dress from New Orleans, all covered with little -garlands of pink satin roses. The military ladies came out to the -Olivares place in an army wagon, to keep their satin shoes from the mud. -The Bishop had put on his violet vest, which he seldom wore, and Father -Vaillant had donned a fresh new cassock, made by the loving hands of his -sister Philomène, in Riom. - -Father Latour had used to feel a little ashamed that Joseph kept his -sister and her nuns so busy making cassocks and vestments for him; but -the last time he was in France he came to see all this in another light. -When he was visiting Mother Philomène's convent, one of the younger -Sisters had confided to him what an inspiration it was to them, living -in retirement, to work for the far-away missions. She told him also how -precious to them were Father Vaillant's long letters, letters in which -he told his sister of the country, the Indians, the pious Mexican women, -the Spanish martyrs of old. These letters, she said, Mother Philomène -read aloud in the evening. The nun took Father Latour to a window that -jutted out and looked up the narrow street to where the wall turned at -an angle, cutting off further view. "Look," she said, "after the Mother -has read us one of those letters from her brother, I come and stand in -this alcove and look up our little street with its one lamp, and just -beyond the turn there, is New Mexico; all that he has written us of -those red deserts and blue mountains, the great plains and the herds of -bison, and the canyons more profound than our deepest mountain gorges. I -can feel that I am there, my heart beats faster, and it seems but a -moment until the retiring-bell cuts short my dreams." The Bishop went -away believing that it was good for these Sisters to work for Father -Joseph. - -To-night, when Madame Olivares was complimenting Father Vaillant on the -sheen of his poplin and velvet, for some reason Father Latour recalled -that moment with the nun in her alcove window, her white face, her -burning eyes, and sighed. - -After supper was over and the toasts had been drunk, the boy Pablo was -called in to play for the company while the gentlemen smoked. The banjo -always remained a foreign instrument to Father Latour; he found it more -than a little savage. When this strange yellow boy played it, there was -softness and languor in the wire strings--but there was also a kind -of madness; the recklessness, the call of wild countries which all these -men had felt and followed in one way or another. Through clouds of cigar -smoke, the scout and the soldiers, the Mexican _rancheros_ and the -priests, sat silently watching the bent head and crouching shoulders of -the banjo player, and his seesawing yellow hand, which sometimes lost -all form and became a mere whirl of matter in motion, like a patch of -sand-storm. - -Observing them thus in repose, in the act of reflection, Father Latour -was thinking how each of these men not only had a story, but seemed to -have become his story. Those anxious, far-seeing blue eyes of Carson's, -to whom could they belong but to a scout and trail-breaker? Don Manuel -Chavez, the handsomest man of the company, very elegant in velvet and -broadcloth, with delicately cut, disdainful features,--one had only to -see him cross the room, or to sit next him at dinner, to feel the -electric quality under his cold reserve; the fierceness of some -embitterment, the passion for danger. - -Chavez boasted his descent from two Castilian knights who freed the city -of Chavez from the Moors in 1160. He had estates in the Pecos and in the -San Mateo mountains, and a house in Santa Fé, where he hid himself -behind his beautiful trees and gardens. He loved the natural beauties of -his country with a passion, and he hated the Americans who were blind to -them. He was jealous of Carson's fame as an Indian-fighter, declaring -that he had seen more Indian warfare before he was twenty than Carson -would ever see. He was easily Carson's rival as a pistol shot. With the -bow and arrow he had no rival; he had never been beaten. No Indian had -ever been known to shoot an arrow as far as Chavez. Every year parties -of Indians came up to the Villa to shoot with him for wagers. His house -and stables were full of trophies. He took a cool pleasure in stripping -the Indians of their horses or silver or blankets, or whatever they had -put up on their man. He was proud of his skill with Indian weapons; he -had acquired it in a hard school. - -When he was a lad of sixteen Manuel Chavez had gone out with a party of -Mexican youths to hunt Navajos. In those days, before the American -occupation, "hunting Navajos" needed no pretext, it was a form of sport. -A company of Mexicans would ride west to the Navajo country, raid a few -sheep camps, and come home bringing flocks and ponies and a bunch of -prisoners, for every one of whom they received a large bounty from the -Mexican Government. It was with such a raiding party that the boy Chavez -went out for spoil and adventure. - -Finding no Indians abroad, the young Mexicans pushed on farther than -they had intended. They did not know that it was the season when all the -roving Navajo bands gather at the Canyon de Chelly for their religious -ceremonies, and they rode on impetuously until they came out upon the -rim of that mysterious and terrifying canyon itself, then swarming with -Indians. They were immediately surrounded, and retreat was impossible. -They fought on the naked sandstone ledges that overhang that gulf. Don -José Chavez, Manuel's older brother, was captain of the party, and was -one of the first to fall. The company of fifty were slaughtered to a -man. Manuel was the fifty-first, and he survived. With seven arrow -wounds, and one shaft clear through his body, he was left for dead in a -pile of corpses. - -That night, while the Navajos were celebrating their victory, the boy -crawled along the rocks until he had high boulders between him and the -enemy, and then started eastward on foot. It was summer, and the heat of -that red sandstone country is intense. His wounds were on fire. But he -had the superb vitality of early youth. He walked for two days and -nights without finding a drop of water, covering a distance of sixty odd -miles, across the plain, across the mountain, until he came to the -famous spring on the other side, where Fort Defiance was afterward -built. There he drank and bathed his wounds and slept. He had had no -food since the morning before the fight; near the spring he found some -large cactus plants, and slicing away the spines with his hunting-knife, -he filled his stomach with the juicy pulp. - -From here, still without meeting a human creature, he stumbled on until -he reached the San Mateo mountain, north of Laguna. In a mountain valley -he came upon a camp of Mexican shepherds, and fell unconscious. The -shepherds made a litter of saplings and their sheepskin coats and -carried him into the village of Cebolleta, where he lay delirious for -many days. Years afterward, when Chavez came into his inheritance, he -bought that beautiful valley in the San Mateo mountain where he had sunk -unconscious under two noble oak trees. He built a house between those -twin oaks, and made a fine estate there. - -Never reconciled to American rule, Chavez lived in seclusion when he was -in Santa Fé. At the first rumour of an Indian outbreak, near or far, he -rode off to add a few more scalps to his record. He distrusted the new -Bishop because of his friendliness toward Indians and Yankees. Besides, -Chavez was a Martinez man. He had come here to-night only in compliment -to Señora Olivares; he hated to spend an evening among American -uniforms. - -When the banjo player was exhausted, Father Joseph said that as for him, -he would like a little drawing-room music, and he led Madame Olivares to -her harp. She was very charming at her instrument; the pose suited her -tip-tilted canary head, and her little foot and white arms. - -This was the last time the Bishop heard her sing "La Paloma" for her -admiring husband, whose eyes smiled at her even when his heavy face -seemed asleep. - - -Olivares died on Septuagesima Sunday--fell over by his own fire-place -when he was lighting the candles after supper, and the banjo boy was -sent running for the Bishop. Before midnight two of the Olivares -brothers, half drunk with brandy and excitement, galloped out of Santa -Fé, on the road to Albuquerque, to employ an American lawyer. - - - - -2 - -THE LADY - - -ANTONIO OLIVARES'S funeral was the most solemn and magnificent ever seen -in Santa Fé, but Father Vaillant was not there. He was off on a long -missionary journey to the south, and did not reach home until Madame -Olivares had been a widow for some weeks. He had scarcely got off his -riding-boots when he was called into Father Latour's study to see her -lawyer. - -Olivares had entrusted the management of his affairs to a young Irish -Catholic, Boyd O'Reilly, who had come out from Boston to practise law in -the new Territory. There were no steel safes in Santa Fé at that time, -but O'Reilly had kept Olivares's will in his strong-box. The document -was brief and clear: Antonio's estate amounted to about two hundred -thousand dollars in American money (a considerable fortune in those -days). The income therefrom was to be enjoyed by "my wife, Isabella -Olivares, and her daughter, Inez Olivares," during their lives, and -after their decease his property was to go to the Church, to the Society -for the Propagation of the Faith. The codicil, in favour of the -Cathedral fund, had, unfortunately, never been added to the will. - -The young lawyer explained to Father Vaillant that the Olivares brothers -had retained the leading legal firm of Albuquerque and were contesting -the will. Their point of attack was that Señorita Inez was too old to -be the daughter of the Señora Olivares. Don Antonio had been a -promiscuous lover in his young days, and his brothers held that Inez was -the offspring of some temporary attachment, and had been adopted by -Doña Isabella. O'Reilly had sent to New Orleans for an attested copy of -the marriage record of the Olivares couple, and the birth certificate of -Señorita Inez. But in Kentucky, where the Señora was born, no birth -records were kept; there was no document to prove the age of Isabella -Olivares, and she could not be persuaded to admit her true age. It was -generally believed in Santa Fé that she was still in her early forties, -in which case she would not have been more than six or eight years old -at the date when Inez was born. In reality the lady was past fifty, but -when O'Reilly had tried to persuade her to admit this in court, she -simply refused to listen to him. He begged the Bishop and the Vicar to -use their influence with her to this end. - -Father Latour shrank from interfering in so delicate a matter, but -Father Vaillant saw at once that it was their plain duty to protect the -two women and, at the same time, secure the rights of the Propaganda. -Without more ado he threw on his old cloak over his cassock, and the -three men set off through the red mud to the Olivares hacienda in the -hills east of the town. - -Father Joseph had not been to the Olivares' house since the night of the -New Year's party, and he sighed as he approached the place, already -transformed by neglect. The big gate was propped open by a pole because -the iron hook was gone, the courtyard was littered with rags and meat -bones which the dogs had carried there and no one had taken away. The -big parrot cage, hanging in the _portale_, was filthy, and the birds -were squalling. When O'Reilly rang the bell at the outer gate, Pablo, -the banjo player, came running out with tousled hair and a dirty shirt -to admit the visitors. He took them into the long living-room, which was -empty and cold, the fire-place dark, the hearth unswept. Chairs and -window-sills were deep in red dust, the glass panes dirty, and streaked -as if by tear-drops. On the writing-table were empty bottles and sticky -glasses and cigar ends. In one corner stood the harp in its green cover. - -Pablo asked the Fathers to be seated. His mistress was staying in bed, -he said, and the cook had burnt her hand, and the other maids were lazy. -He brought wood and laid a fire. - -After some time, Doña Isabella entered, dressed in heavy mourning, her -face very white against the black, and her eyes red. The curls about her -neck and ears were pale, too--quite ashen. - -After Father Vaillant had greeted her and spoken: consoling words, the -young lawyer began once more gently to explain to her the difficulties -that confronted them, and what they must do to defeat the action of the -Olivares family. She sat submissively, touching her eyes and nose with -her little lace handkerchief, and clearly not even trying to understand -a word of what he said to her. - -Father Joseph soon lost patience and himself approached the widow. "You -understand, my child," he began briskly, "that your husband's brothers -are determined to disregard his wishes, to defraud you and your -daughter, and, eventually, the Church. This is no time for childish -vanity. To prevent this outrage to your husband's memory, you must -satisfy the court that you are old enough to be the mother of -Mademoiselle Inez. You must resolutely declare your true age; -fifty-three, is it not?" - -Doña Isabella became pallid with fright. She shrank into one end of the -deep sofa, but her blue eyes focused and gathered light, as she became -intensely, rigidly animated in her corner,--her back against the wall, -as it were. - -"Fifty-three!" she cried in a voice of horrified amazement. "Why, I -never heard of anything so outrageous! I was forty-two my last birthday. -It was in December, the fourth of December. If Antonio were here, he -would tell you! And he wouldn't let you scold me and talk about business -to me, either, Father Joseph. He never let anybody talk about business -to me!" She hid her face in her little handkerchief and began to cry. - -Father Latour checked his impetuous Vicar, and sat down on the sofa -beside Madame Olivares, feeling very sorry for her and speaking very -gently. "Forty-two to your friends, dear Madame Olivares, and to the -world. In heart and face you are younger than that. But to the Law and -the Church there must be a literal reckoning. A formal statement in -court will not make you any older to your friends; it will not add one -line to your face. A woman, you know, is as old as she looks." - -"That's very sweet of you to say, Bishop Latour," the lady quavered, -looking up at him with tearbright eyes. "But I never could hold up my -head again. Let the Olivares have that old money. I don't want it." - -Father Vaillant sprang up and glared down at her as if he could put -common sense into her drooping head by the mere intensity of his gaze. -"Four hundred thousand pesos, Señora Isabella!" he cried. "Ease and -comfort for you and your daughter all the rest of your lives. Would you -make your daughter a beggar? The Olivares will take everything." - -"I can't help it about Inez," she pleaded. "Inez means to go into the -convent anyway. And I don't care about the money. _Ah, mon père, je -voudrais mieux être jeune et mendiante, que n'être que vieille et -riche, certes, oui_!" - -Father Joseph caught her icy cold hand. "And have you a right to defraud -the Church of what is left to it in your trust? Have you thought of the -consequences to yourself of such a betrayal?" - -Father Latour glanced sternly at his Vicar. "_Assez_," he said quietly. -He took the little hand Father Joseph had released and bent over it, -kissing it respectfully. "We must not press this any further. We must -leave this to Madame Olivares and her own conscience. I believe, my -daughter, you will come to realize that this sacrifice of your vanity -would be for your soul's peace. Looking merely at the temporal aspect of -the case, you would find poverty hard to bear. You would have to live -upon the Olivares's charity, would you not? I do not wish to see this -come about. I have a selfish interest; I wish you to be always your -charming self and to make a little _poésie_ in life for us here. We -have not much of that." - -Madame Olivares stopped crying. She raised her head and sat drying her -eyes. Suddenly she took hold of one of the buttons on the Bishop's -cassock and began twisting it with nervous fingers. - -"Father," she said timidly, "what is the youngest I could possibly be, -to be Inez's mother?" - -The Bishop could not pronounce the verdict; he hesitated, flushed, then -passed it on to O'Reilly with an open gesture of his fine white hand. - -"Fifty-two, Señora Olivares," said the young man respectfully. "If I -can get you to admit that, and stick to it, I feel sure we will win our -case." - -"Very well, Mr. O'Reilly." She bowed her head. As her visitors rose, she -sat looking down at the dust-covered rugs. "Before everybody!" she -murmured, as if to herself. - -When they were tramping home, Father Joseph said that as for him, he -would rather combat the superstitions of a whole Indian pueblo than the -vanity of one white woman. - -"And I would rather do almost anything than go through such a scene -again," said the Bishop with a frown. "I don't think I ever assisted at -anything so cruel." - - -Boyd O'Reilly defeated the Olivares brothers and won his case. The -Bishop would not go to the court hearing, but Father Vaillant was there, -standing in the malodorous crowd (there were no chairs in the court -room), and his knees shook under him when the young lawyer, with the -fierceness born of fright, poked his finger at his client and said: - -"Señora Olivares, you are fifty-two years of age, are you not?" - -Madame Olivares was swathed in mourning, her face a streak of shadowed -white between folds of black veil. - -"Yes, sir." The crape barely let it through. - -The night after the verdict was pronounced, Manuel Chavez, with several -of Antonio's old friends, called upon the widow to congratulate her. -Word of their intention had gone about the town and put others in the -mood to call at a house that had been closed to visitors for so long. A -considerable company gathered there that evening, including some of the -military people, and several hereditary enemies of the Olivares -brothers. - -The cook, stimulated by the sight of the long sala full of people once -more, hastily improvised a supper. Pablo put on a white shirt and a -velvet jacket, and began to carry up from the cellar his late master's -best whisky and sherry, and quarts of champagne. (The Mexicans are very -fond of sparkling wines. Only a few years before this, an American -trader who had got into serious political trouble with the Mexican -military authorities in Santa Fé, regained their confidence and -friendship by presenting them with a large wagon shipment of -champagne--three thousand, three hundred and ninety-two bottles, -indeed!) - -This hospitable mood came upon the house suddenly, nothing had been -prepared beforehand. The wineglasses were full of dust, but Pablo wiped -them out with the shirt he had just taken off, and without instructions -from anyone he began gliding about with a tray full of glasses, which he -afterward refilled many times, taking his station at the sideboard. -Even Doña Isabella drank a little champagne; when she had sipped one -glass with the young Georgia captain, she could not refuse to take -another with their nearest neighbour, Ferdinand Sanchez, always a true -friend to her husband. Everyone was gay, the servants and the guests, -everything sparkled like a garden after a shower. - -Father Latour and Father Vaillant, having heard nothing of this -spontaneous gathering of friends, set off at eight o'clock to make a -call upon the brave widow. When they entered the courtyard, they were -astonished to hear music within, and to see light streaming from the -long row of windows behind the _portale_. Without stopping to knock, -they opened the door into the _sala_. Many candles were burning. Señors -were standing about in long frock-coats buttoned over full figures. -O'Reilly and a group of officers from the Fort surrounded the sideboard, -where Pablo, with a white napkin wrapped showily about his wrist, was -pouring champagne. From the other end of the room sounded the high -tinkle of the harp, and Doña Isabella's voice: - - - "_Listen to the mocking-bird_, - _Listen to the mocking-bird!_" - - -The priests waited in the doorway until the song was finished, then went -forward to pay their respects to the hostess. She was wearing the -unrelieved white that grief permitted, and the yellow curls were bobbing -as of old--three behind her right ear, one over either temple, and a -little row across the back of her neck. As she saw the two black figures -approaching, she dropped her arms from the harp, took her satin toe from -the pedal, and rose, holding out a hand to each. Her eyes were bright, -and her face beamed with affection for her spiritual fathers. But her -greeting was a playful reproach, uttered loud enough to be heard above -the murmur of conversing groups: - -"I never shall forgive you, Father Joseph, nor you either, Bishop -Latour, for that awful lie you made me tell in court about my age!" - -The two churchmen bowed amid laughter and applause. - - - - -BOOK SEVEN - -_THE GREAT DIOCESE_ - - - - -1 - -THE MONTH OF MARY - - -THE Bishop's work was sometimes assisted, often impeded, by external -events. - -By the Gadsden Purchase, executed three years after Father Latour came -to Santa Fé, the United States took over from Mexico a great territory -which now forms southern New Mexico and Arizona. The authorities at Rome -notified Father Latour that this new territory was to be annexed to his -diocese, but that as the national boundary lines often cut parishes in -two, the boundaries of Church jurisdiction must be settled by conference -with the Mexican Bishops of Chihuahua and Sonora. Such conferences would -necessitate a journey of nearly four thousand miles. As Father Vaillant -remarked, at Rome they did not seem to realize that it was no easy -matter for two missionaries on horseback to keep up with the march of -history. - -The question hung fire for some years, the subject of voluminous -correspondence. At last, in 1858, Father Vaillant was sent to arrange -the debated boundaries with the Mexican Bishops. He started in the -autumn and spent the whole winter on the road, going from El Paso del -Norte west to Tucson, on to Santa Magdalena and Guaymas, a seaport town -on the Gulf of California, and did some seafaring on the Pacific before -he turned homeward. - -On his return trip he was stricken with malarial fever, resulting from -exposure and bad water, and lay seriously ill in a cactus desert in -Arizona. Word of his illness came to Santa Fé by an Indian runner, and -Father Latour and Jacinto rode across New Mexico and half of Arizona, -found Father Vaillant, and brought him back by easy stages. - -He was ill in the Bishop's house for two months. This was the first -spring that he and Father Latour had both been there at the same time, -to enjoy the garden they had laid out soon after they first came to -Santa Fé. - - -It was the month of Mary and the month of May. Father Vaillant was lying -on an army cot, covered with blankets, under the grape arbour in the -garden, watching the Bishop and his gardener at work in the vegetable -plots. The apple trees were in blossom, the cherry blooms had gone by. -The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the -soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air -one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot -had a reflection of blue sky in it. - -This garden had been laid out six years ago, when the Bishop brought his -fruit trees (then dry switches) up from St. Louis in wagons, along with -the blessed Sisters of Loretto, who came to found the Academy of Our -Lady of Light. The school was now well established, reckoned a benefit -to the community by Protestants as well as Catholics, and the trees were -bearing. Cuttings from them were already yielding fruit in many Mexican -gardens. While the Bishop was away on that first trip to Baltimore, -Father Joseph had, in addition to his many official duties, found time -to instruct their Mexican housekeeper, Fructosa, in cookery. Later -Bishop Latour took in hand Fructosa's husband, Tranquilino, and trained -him as a gardener. They had boldly planned for the future; the ground -behind the church, between the Bishop's house and the Academy, they laid -out as a spacious orchard and kitchen-garden. Ever since then the Bishop -had worked on it, planting and pruning. It was his only recreation. - -A line of young poplars linked the Episcopal courtyard with the school. -On the south, against the earth wall, was the one row of trees they had -found growing there when they first came,--old, old tamarisks, with -twisted trunks. They had been so neglected, left to fight for life in -such hard, sun-baked, burro-trodden ground, that their trunks had the -hardness of cypress. They looked, indeed, like very old posts, well -seasoned and polished by time, miraculously endowed with the power to -burst into delicate foliage and flowers, to cover themselves with long -brooms of lavender-pink blossom. - -Father Joseph had come to love the tamarisk above all trees. It had been -the companion of his wanderings. All along his way through the deserts -of New Mexico and Arizona, wherever he had come upon a Mexican -homestead, out of the sun-baked earth, against the sun-baked adobe -walls, the tamarisk waved its feathery plumes of bluish green. The -family burro was tied to its trunk, the chickens scratched under it, the -dogs slept in its shade, the washing was hung on its branches. Father -Latour had often remarked that this tree seemed especially designed in -shape and colour for the adobe village. The sprays of bloom which adorn -it are merely another shade of the red earth walls, and its fibrous -trunk is full of gold and lavender tints. Father Joseph respected the -Bishop's eye for such things, but himself he loved it merely because it -was the tree of the people, and was like one of the family in every -Mexican household. - -This was a very happy season for Father Vaillant. For years he had not -been able properly to observe this month which in his boyhood he had -selected to be the holy month of the year for him, dedicated to the -contemplation of his Gracious Patroness. In his former missionary life, -on the Great Lakes, he used always to go into retreat at this season. -But here there was no time for such things. Last year, in May, he had -been on his way to the Hopi Indians, riding thirty miles a day; -marrying, baptizing, confessing as he went, making camp in the -sand-hills at night. His devotions had been constantly interrupted by -practical considerations. - -But this year, because of his illness, the month of Mary he had been -able to give to Mary; to Her he had consecrated his waking hours. At -night he sank to sleep with the sense of Her protection. In the morning -when he awoke, before he had opened his eyes, he was conscious of a -special sweetness in the air,--Mary, and the month of May. _Alma Mater -redemptoris_! Once more he had been able to worship with the ardour of a -young religious, for whom religion is pure personal devotion, unalloyed -by expediency and the benumbing cares of a missionary's work. Once again -this had been his month; his Patroness had given it to him, the season -that had always meant so much in his religious life. - -He smiled to remember a time long ago, when he was a young curate in -Cendre, in the Puy-de-Dôm; how he had planned a season of special -devotion to the Blessed Virgin for May, and how the old priest to whom -he was assistant had blasted his hopes by cold disapproval. The old man -had come through the Terror, had been trained in the austerity of those -days of the persecution of the clergy, and he was not untouched by -Jansenism. Young Father Joseph bore his rebuke with meekness, and went -sadly to his own chamber. There he took his rosary and spent the entire -day in prayer. "_Not according to my desires, but if it is for thy -glory, grant me this boon, O Mary, my hope_." In the evening of that -same day the old pastor sent for him, and unsolicited granted him the -request he had so sternly denied in the morning. How joyfully Father -Joseph had written all this to his sister Philomène, then a pupil with -the nuns of the Visitation in their native Riom, begging her to make him -a quantity of artificial flowers for his May altar. How richly she had -responded!--and she rejoiced no less than he that his May devotions were -so largely attended, especially by the young people of the parish, in -whom a notable increase of piety was manifest. Father Vaillant's had -been a close-knit family--losing their mother while they were yet -children had brought the brothers and sisters the closer together--and -with this sister, Philomène, he had shared all his hopes and desires -and his deepest religious life. - -Ever since then, all the most important events in his own history had -occurred in the blessed month when this sinful and sullied world puts on -white as if to commemorate the Annunciation, and becomes, for a little, -lovely enough to be in truth the Bride of Christ. It was in May that he -had been given grace to perform the hardest act of his life; to leave -his country, to part from his dear sister and his father (under what sad -circumstances!), and to start for the New World to take up a -missionary's labours. That parting was not a parting, but an escape--a -running away, a betrayal of family trust for the sake of a higher trust. -He could smile at it now, but at the time it had been terrible enough. -The Bishop, thinning carrots yonder, would remember. It was because of -what Father Latour had been to him in that hour, indeed, that Father -Joseph was here in a garden in Santa Fé. He would never have left his -dear Sandusky when the newly appointed Bishop asked him to share his -hardships, had he not said to himself: "Ah, now it is he who is torn by -perplexity! I will be to him now what he was to me that day when we -stood by the road-side, waiting for the _diligence_ to Paris, and my -purpose broke, and he saved me." - -That time came back upon Father Vaillant now so keenly that he wiped a -little moisture from his eyes,--(he was quickly moved, after the way of -sick people) and he cleared his glasses and called: - -"Father Latour, it is time for you to rest your back. You have been -stooping over a great while." - -The Bishop came and sat down in a wheelbarrow that stood at the edge of -the arbour. - -"I have been thinking that I shall no longer pray for your speedy -recovery, Joseph. The only way I can keep my Vicar within call is to -have him sick." - -Father Joseph smiled. - -"You are not in Santa Fé a great deal yourself, my Bishop." - -"Well, I shall be here this summer, and I hope to keep you with me. This -year I want you to see my lotus flowers. Tranquilino will let the water -into my lake this afternoon." The lake was a little pond in the middle -of the garden, into which Tranquilino, clever with water, like all -Mexicans, had piped a stream from the Santa Fé creek flowing near at -hand. "Last summer, while you were away," the Bishop continued, "we had -more than a hundred lotus blossoms floating on that little lake. And all -from five bulbs that I put into my valise in Rome." - -"When do they blossom?" - -"They begin in June, but they are at their best in July." - -"Then you must hurry them up a little. For with my Bishop's permission, -I shall be gone in July." - -"So soon? And why?" - -Father Vaillant moved uneasily under his blankets. "To hunt for lost -Catholics, Jean! Utterly lost Catholics, down in your new territory, -towards Tucson. There are hundreds of poor families down there who have -never seen a priest. I want to go from house to house this time, to -every little settlement. They are full of devotion and faith, and it has -nothing to feed upon but the most mistaken superstitions. They remember -their prayers all wrong. They cannot read, and since there is no one to -instruct them, how can they get right? They are like seeds, full of -germination but with no moisture. A mere contact is enough to make them -a living part of the Church. The more I work with the Mexicans, the more -I believe it was people like them our Saviour bore in mind when He said, -_Unless ye become as little children_. He was thinking of people who are -not clever in the things of this world, whose minds are not upon gain -and worldly advancement. These poor Christians are not thrifty like our -country people at home; they have no veneration for property, no sense -of material values. I stop a few hours in a village, I administer the -sacraments and hear confessions, I leave in every house some little -token, a rosary or a religious picture, and I go away feeling that I -have conferred immeasurable happiness, and have released faithful souls -that were shut away from God by neglect. - -"Down near Tucson a Pima Indian convert once asked me to go off into the -desert with him, as he had something to show me. He took me into a place -so wild that a man less accustomed to these things might have mistrusted -and feared for his life. We descended into a terrifying canyon of black -rock, and there in the depths of a cave, he showed me a golden chalice, -vestments and cruets, all the paraphernalia for celebrating Mass. His -ancestors had hidden these sacred objects there when the mission was -sacked by Apaches, he did not know how many generations ago. The secret -had been handed down in his family, and I was the first priest who had -ever come to restore to God his own. To me, that is the situation in a -parable. The Faith, in that wild frontier, is like a buried treasure; -they guard it, but they do not know how to use it to their soul's -salvation. A word, a prayer, a service, is all that is needed to set -free those souls in bondage. I confess I am covetous of that mission. I -desire to be the man who restores these lost children to God. It will be -the greatest happiness of my life." - -The Bishop did not reply at once to this appeal. At last he said -gravely, "You must realize that I have need of you here, Father Joseph. -My duties are too many for one man." - -"But you do not need me so much as they do!" Father Joseph threw off his -coverings and sat up in his cassock, putting his feet to the ground. -"Any one of our good French priests from Montferrand can serve you here. -It is work that can be done by intelligence. But down there it is work -for the heart, for a particular sympathy, and none of our new priests -understand those poor natures as I do. I have almost become a Mexican! I -have learned to like _chili colorado_ and mutton fat. Their foolish ways -no longer offend me, their very faults are dear to me. I am _their -man_!" - -"Ah, no doubt, no doubt! But I must insist upon your lying down for the -present." - -Father Vaillant, flushed and excited, dropped back upon his pillows, and -the Bishop took a short turn through the garden,--to the row of tamarisk -trees and back. He walked slowly, with even, unhesitating pace, with -that slender, unrigid erectness, and the fine carriage of head, which -always made him seem master of the situation. No one would have guessed -that a sharp struggle was going on within him. Father Joseph's -impassioned request had spoiled a cherished plan, and brought Father -Latour a bitter personal disappointment. There was but one thing to -do,--and before he reached the tamarisks he had done it. He broke off a -spray of the dry lilac-coloured flowers to punctuate and seal, as it -were, his renunciation. He returned with the same easy, deliberate -tread, and stood smiling beside the army cot. - -"Your feeling must be your guide in this matter, Joseph. I shall put no -obstacles in your way. A certain care for your health I must insist -upon, but when you are quite well, you must follow the duty that calls -loudest." - -They were both silent for a few moments. Father Joseph closed his eyes -against the sunlight, and Father Latour stood lost in thought, drawing -the plume of tamarisk blossom absently through his delicate, rather -nervous fingers. His hands had a curious authority, but not the calmness -so often seen in the hands of priests; they seemed always to be -investigating and making firm decisions. - -The two friends were roused from their reflections by a frantic beating -of wings. A bright flock of pigeons swept over their heads to the far -end of the garden, where a woman was just emerging from the gate that -led into the school grounds; Magdalena, who came every day to feed the -doves and to gather flowers. The Sisters had given her charge of the -altar decoration of the school chapel for this month, and she came for -the Bishop's apple blossoms and daffodils. She advanced in a whirlwind -of gleaming wings, and Tranquilino dropped his spade and stood watching -her. At one moment the whole flock of doves caught the light in such a -way that they all became invisible at once, dissolved in light and -disappeared as salt dissolves in water. The next moment they flashed -around, black and silver against the sun. They settled upon Magdalena's -arms and shoulders, ate from her hand. When she put a crust of bread -between her lips, two doves hung in the air before her face, stirring -their wings and pecking at the morsel. A handsome woman she had grown to -be, with her comely figure and the deep claret colour under the golden -brown of her cheeks. - -"Who would think, to look at her now, that we took her from a place -where every vileness of cruelty and lust was practised!" murmured Father -Vaillant. "Not since the days of early Christianity has the Church been -able to do what it can here." - -"She is but twenty-seven or -eight years old. I wonder whether she ought -not to marry again," said the Bishop thoughtfully. "Though she seems so -contented, I have sometimes surprised a tragic shadow in her eyes. Do -you remember the terrible look in her eyes when we first saw her?" - -"Can I ever forget it! But her very body has changed. She was then a -shapeless, cringing creature. I thought her half-witted. No, no! She has -had enough of the storms of this world. Here she is safe and happy." -Father Vaillant sat up and called to her. "Magdalena, Magdalena, my -child, come here and talk to us for a little. Two men grow lonely when -they see nobody but each other." - - - - -2 - -DECEMBER NIGHT - - -FATHER VAILLANT had been absent in Arizona since midsummer, and it was -now December. Bishop Latour had been going through one of those periods -of coldness and doubt which, from his boyhood, had occasionally settled -down upon his spirit and made him feel an alien, wherever he was. He -attended to his correspondence, went on his rounds among the parish -priests, held services at missions that were without pastors, -superintended the building of the addition to the Sisters' school: but -his heart was not in these things. - -One night about three weeks before Christmas he was lying in his bed, -unable to sleep, with the sense of failure clutching at his heart. His -prayers were empty words and brought him no refreshment. His soul had -become a barren field. He had nothing within himself to give his priests -or his people. His work seemed superficial, a house built upon the -sands. His great diocese was still a heathen country. The Indians -travelled their old road of fear and darkness, battling with evil omens -and ancient shadows. The Mexicans were children who played with their -religion. - -As the night wore on, the bed on which the Bishop lay became a bed of -thorns; he could bear it no longer. Getting up in the dark, he looked -out of the window and was surprised to find that it was snowing, that -the ground was already lightly covered. The full moon, hidden by veils -of cloud, threw a pale phosphorescent luminousness over the heavens, and -the towers of the church stood up black against this silvery fleece. -Father Latour felt a longing to go into the church to pray; but instead -he lay down again under his blankets. Then, realizing that it was the -cold of the church he shrank from, and despising himself, he rose again, -dressed quickly, and went out into the court, throwing on over his -cassock that faithful old cloak that was the twin of Father Vaillant's. - -They had bought the cloth for those coats in Paris, long ago, when they -were young men staying at the Seminary for Foreign Missions in the rue -du Bac, preparing for their first voyage to the New World. The cloth had -been made up into caped riding-cloaks by a German tailor in Ohio, and -lined with fox fur. Years afterward, when Father Latour was about to -start on his long journey in search of his Bishopric, that same tailor -had made the cloaks over and relined them with squirrel skins, as more -appropriate for a mild climate. These memories and many others went -through the Bishop's mind as he wrapped the trusty garment about him and -crossed the court to the sacristy, with the big iron key in his hand. - -The court was white with snow, and the shadows of walls and buildings -stood out sharply in the faint light from the moon muffled in vapour. In -the deep doorway of the sacristy he saw a crouching figure--a woman, he -made out, and she was weeping bitterly. He raised her up and took her -inside. As soon as he had lit a candle, he recognized her, and could -have guessed her errand. - -It was an old Mexican woman, called Sada, who was slave in an American -family. They were Protestants, very hostile to the Roman Church, and -they did not allow her to go to Mass or to receive the visits of a -priest. She was carefully watched at home,--but in winter, when the -heated rooms of the house were desirable to the family, she was put to -sleep in a woodshed. To-night, unable to sleep for the cold, she had -gathered courage for this heroic action, had slipped out through the -stable door and come running up an alley-way to the House of God to -pray. Finding the front doors of the church fastened, she had made her -way into the Bishop's garden and come round to the sacristy, only to -find that, too, shut against her. - -The Bishop stood holding the candle and watching her face while she -spoke her few words; a dark brown peon face, worn thin and sharp by life -and sorrow. It seemed to him that he had never seen pure goodness shine -out of a human countenance as it did from hers. He saw that she had no -stockings under her shoes,--the cast-off rawhides of her master,--and -beneath her frayed black shawl was only a thin calico dress, covered -with patches. Her teeth struck together as she stood trying to control -her shivering. With one movement of his free hand the Bishop took the -furred cloak from his shoulders and put it about her. This frightened -her. She cowered under it, murmuring, "Ah, no, no, Padre!" - -"You must obey your Padre, my daughter. Draw that cloak about you, and -we will go into the church to pray." - -The church was utterly black except for the red spark of the sanctuary -lamp before the high altar. Taking her hand, and holding the candle -before him, he led her across the choir to the Lady Chapel. There he -began to light the tapers before the Virgin. Old Sada fell on her knees -and kissed the floor. She kissed the feet of the Holy Mother, the -pedestal on which they stood, crying all the while. But from the working -of her face, from the beautiful tremors which passed over it, he knew -they were tears of ecstasy. - -"Nineteen years, Father; nineteen years since I have seen the holy -things of the altar!" - -"All that is passed, Sada. You have remembered the holy things in your -heart. We will pray together." - -The Bishop knelt beside her, and they began, _O Holy Mary, Queen of -Virgins_.... - -More than once Father Vaillant had spoken to the Bishop of this aged -captive. There had been much whispering among the devout women of the -parish about her pitiful case. The Smiths, with whom she lived, were -Georgia people, who had at one time lived in El Paso del Norte, and they -had taken her back to their native State with them. Not long ago some -disgrace had come upon this family in Georgia, they had been forced to -sell all their negro slaves and flee the State. The Mexican woman they -could not sell because they had no legal title to her, her position was -irregular. Now that they were back in a Mexican country, the Smiths were -afraid their charwoman might escape from them and find asylum among her -own people, so they kept strict watch upon her. They did not allow her -to go outside their own _patio_, not even to accompany her mistress to -market. - -Two women of the Altar Guild had been so bold as to go into the _patio_ -to talk with Sada when she was washing clothes, but they had been rudely -driven away by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Smith had come running -out into the court, half dressed, and told them that if they had -business at her _casa_ they were to come in by the front door, and not -sneak in through the stable to frighten a poor silly creature. When they -said they had come to ask Sada to go to Mass with them, she told them -she had got the poor creature out of the clutches of the priests once, -and would see to it that she did not fall into them again. - -Even after that rebuff a very pious neighbour woman had tried to say a -word to Sada through the alley door of the stable, where she was -unloading wood off the burro. But the old servant had put her finger to -her lips and motioned the visitor away, glancing back over her shoulder -the while with such an expression of terror that the intruder hastened -off, surmising that Sada would be harshly used if she were caught -speaking to anyone. The good woman went immediately to Father Vaillant -with this story, and he had consulted the Bishop, declaring that -something ought to be done to secure the consolations of religion for -the bond-woman. But the Bishop replied that the time was not yet; for -the present it was inexpedient to antagonize these people. The Smiths -were the leaders of a small group of low-caste Protestants who took -every occasion to make trouble for the Catholics. They hung about the -door of the church on festival days with mockery and loud laughter, -spoke insolently to the nuns in the street, stood jeering and -blaspheming when the procession went by on Corpus Christi Sunday. There -were five sons in the Smith family, fellows of low habits and evil -tongues. Even the two younger boys, still children, showed a vicious -disposition. Tranquilino had repeatedly driven these two boys out of the -Bishop's garden, where they came with their lewd companions to rob the -young pear trees or to speak filth against the priests. - -When they rose from their knees, Father Latour told Sada he was glad to -know that she remembered her prayers so well. - -"Ah, Padre, every night I say my Rosary to my Holy Mother, no matter -where I sleep!" declared the old creature passionately, looking up into -his face and pressing her knotted hands against her breast. - -When he asked if she had her beads with her, she was confused. She kept -them tied with a cord around her waist, under her clothes, as the only -place she could hide them safely. - -He spoke soothingly to her. "Remember this, Sada; in the year to come, -and during the Novena before Christmas, I will not forget to pray for -you whenever I offer the Blessed Sacrament of the Mass. Be at rest in -your heart, for I will remember you in my silent supplications before -the altar as I do my own sisters and my nieces." - -Never, as he afterward told Father Vaillant, had it been permitted him -to behold such deep experience of the holy joy of religion as on that -pale December night. He was able to feel, kneeling beside her, the -preciousness of the things of the altar to her who was without -possessions; the tapers, the image of the Virgin, the figures of the -saints, the Cross that took away indignity from suffering and made pain -and poverty a means of fellowship with Christ. Kneeling beside the much -enduring bondwoman, he experienced those holy mysteries as he had done -in his young manhood. He seemed able to feel all it meant to her to know -that there was a Kind Woman in Heaven, though there were such cruel ones -on earth. Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's -hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness. Only -a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer. - -Not often, indeed, had Jean Marie Latour come so near to the Fountain of -all Pity as in the Lady Chapel that night; the pity that no man born of -woman could ever utterly cut himself off from; that was for the murderer -on the scaffold, as it was for the dying soldier or the martyr on the -rack. The beautiful concept of Mary pierced the priest's heart like a -sword. - -"_O Sacred Heart of Mary_!" she murmured by his side, and he felt how -that name was food and raiment, friend and mother to her. He received -the miracle in her heart into his own, saw through her eyes, knew that -his poverty was as bleak as hers. When the Kingdom of Heaven had first -come into the world, into a cruel world of torture and slaves and -masters, He who brought it had said, "_And whosoever is least among you, -the same shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven_." This church was -Sada's house, and he was a servant in it. - -The Bishop heard the old woman's confession. He blessed her and put both -hands upon her head. When he took her down the nave to let her out of -the church, Sada made to lift his cloak from her shoulders. He -restrained her, telling her she must keep it for her own, and sleep in -it at night. But she slipped out of it hurriedly; such a thought seemed -to terrify her. "No, no, Father. If they were to find it on me!" More -than that, she did not accuse her oppressors. But as she put it off, she -stroked the old garment and patted it as if it were a living thing that -had been kind to her. - -Happily Father Latour bethought him of a little silver medal, with a -figure of the Virgin, he had in his pocket. He gave it to her, telling -her that it had been blessed by the Holy Father himself. Now she would -have a treasure to hide and guard, to adore while her watchers slept. -Ah, he thought, for one who cannot read--or think--the Image, the -physical form of Love! - -He fitted the great key into its lock, the door swung slowly back on its -wooden hinges. The peace without seemed all one with the peace in his -own soul. The snow had stopped, the gauzy clouds that had ribbed the -arch of heaven were now all sunk into one soft white fog bank over the -Sangre de Cristo mountains. The full moon shone high in the blue vault, -majestic, lonely, benign. The Bishop stood in the doorway of his church, -lost in thought, looking at the line of black footprints his departing -visitor had left in the wet scurf of snow. - - - - -3 - -SPRING IN THE NAVAJO COUNTRY - - -FATHER VAILLANT was away in Arizona all winter. When the first hint of -spring was in the air, the Bishop and Jacinto set out on a long ride -across New Mexico, to the Painted Desert and the Hopi villages. After -they left Oraibi, the Bishop rode several days to the south, to visit a -Navajo friend who had lately lost his only son, and who had paid the -Bishop the compliment of sending word of the boy's death to him at Santa -Fé. - -Father Latour had known Eusabio a long while, had met him soon after he -first came to his new diocese. The Navajo was in Santa Fé at that time, -assisting the military officers to quiet an outbreak of the never-ending -quarrel between his people and the Hopis. Ever since then the Bishop and -the Indian chief had entertained an increasing regard for each other. -Eusabio brought his son all the way to Santa Fé to have the Bishop -baptize him,--that one beloved son who had died during this last winter. - -Though he was ten years younger than Father Latour, Eusabio was one of -the most influential men among the Navajo people, and one of the richest -in sheep and horses. In Santa Fé and Albuquerque he was respected for -his intelligence and authority, and admired for his fine presence. He -was extremely tall, even for a Navajo, with a face like a Roman -general's of Republican times. He always dressed very elegantly in -velvet and buckskin rich with bead and quill embroidery, belted with -silver, and wore a blanket of the finest wool and design. His arms, -under the loose sleeves of his shirt, were covered with silver -bracelets, and on his breast hung very old necklaces of wampum and -turquoise and coral--Mediterranean coral, that had been left in the -Navajo country by Coronado's captains when they passed through it on -their way to discover the Hopi villages and the Grand Canyon. - -Eusabio lived, with his relatives and dependents, in a group of hogans -on the Colorado Chiquito; to the west and south and north his kinsmen -herded his great flocks. - -Father Latour and Jacinto arrived at the cluster of booth-like cabins -during a high sand-storm, which circled about them and their mules like -snow in a blizzard and all but obliterated the landscape. The Navajo -came out of his house and took possession of Angelica by her bridle-bit. -At first he did not open his lips, merely stood holding Father Latour's -very fine white hand in his very fine dark one, and looked into his face -with a message of sorrow and resignation in his deep-set, eagle eyes. A -wave of feeling passed over his bronze features as he said slowly: - -"My friend has come." - -That was all, but it was everything; welcome, confidence, appreciation. - -For his lodging the Bishop was given a solitary hogan, a little apart -from the settlement. Eusabio quickly furnished it with his best skins -and blankets, and told his guest that he must tarry a few days there and -recover from his fatigue. His mules were tired, the Indian said, the -Padre himself looked weary, and the way to Santa Fé was long. - -The Bishop thanked him and said he would stay three days; that he had -need for reflection. His mind had been taken up with practical matters -ever since he left home. This seemed a spot where a man might get his -thoughts together. The river, a considerable stream at this time of the -year, wound among mounds and dunes of loose sand which whirled through -the air all day in the boisterous spring winds. The sand banked up -against the hogan the Bishop occupied, and filtered through chinks in -the walls, which were made of saplings plastered with clay. - -Beside the river was a grove of tall, naked cottonwoods--trees of great -antiquity and enormous size--so large that they seemed to belong to a -bygone age. They grew far apart, and their strange twisted shapes must -have come about from the ceaseless winds that bent them to the east and -scoured them with sand, and from the fact that they lived with very -little water,--the river was nearly dry here for most of the year. The -trees rose out of the ground at a slant, and forty or fifty feet above -the earth all these white, dry trunks changed their direction, grew back -over their base line. Some split into great forks which arched down -almost to the ground; some did not fork at all, but the main trunk -dipped downward in a strong curve, as if drawn by a bowstring; and some -terminated in a thick coruscation of growth, like a crooked palm tree. -They were all living trees, yet they seemed to be of old, dead, dry -wood, and had very scant foliage. High up in the forks, or at the end of -a preposterous length of twisted bough, would burst a faint bouquet of -delicate green leaves--out of all keeping with the great lengths of -seasoned white trunk and branches. The grove looked like a winter wood -of giant trees, with clusters of mistletoe growing among the bare -boughs. - -Navajo hospitality is not intrusive. Eusabio made the Bishop understand -that he was glad to have him there, and let him alone. Father Latour -lived for three days in an almost perpetual sand-storm--cut off from -even this remote little Indian camp by moving walls and tapestries of -sand. He either sat in his house and listened to the wind, or walked -abroad under those aged, wind-distorted trees, muffled in an Indian -blanket, which he kept drawn up over his mouth and nose. Since his -arrival he had undertaken to decide whether he would be justified in -recalling Father Vaillant from Tucson. The Vicar's occasional letters, -brought by travellers, showed that he was highly content where he was, -restoring the old mission church of St. Xavier del Bac, which he -declared to be the most beautiful church on the continent, though it had -been neglected for more than two hundred years. - -Since Father Vaillant went away the Bishop's burdens had grown heavier -and heavier. The new priests from Auvergne were all good men, faithful -and untiring in carrying out his wishes; but they were still strangers -to the country, timid about making decisions, and referred every -difficulty to their Bishop. Father Latour needed his Vicar, who had so -much tact with the natives, so much sympathy with all their -short-comings. When they were together, he was always curbing Father -Vaillant's hopeful rashness--but left alone, he greatly missed that very -quality. And he missed Father Vaillant's companionship--why not admit -it? - -Although Jean Marie Latour and Joseph Vaillant were born in neighbouring -parishes in the Puy-de-Dôm, as children they had not known each other. -The Latours were an old family of scholars and professional men, while -the Vaillants were people of a much humbler station in the provincial -world. Besides, little Joseph had been away from home much of the time, -up on the farm in the Volvic mountains with his grandfather, where the -air was especially pure, and the country quiet salutary for a child of -nervous temperament. The two boys had not come together until they were -Seminarians at Montferrand, in Clermont. - -When Jean Marie was in his second year at the Seminary, he was standing -on the recreation ground one day at the opening of the term, looking -with curiosity at the new students. In the group, he noticed one of -peculiarly unpromising appearance; a boy of nineteen who was undersized, -very pale, homely in feature, with a wart on his chin and tow-coloured -hair that made him look like a German. This boy seemed to feel his -glance, and came up at once, as if he had been called. He was apparently -quite unconscious of his homeliness, was not at all shy, but intensely -interested in his new surroundings. He asked Jean Latour his name, where -he came from, and his father's occupation. Then he said with great -simplicity: - -"My father is a baker, the best in Riom. In fact, he's a remarkable -baker." - -Young Latour was amused, but expressed polite appreciation of this -confidence. The queer lad went on to tell him about his brother and his -aunt, and his clever little sister, Philomène. He asked how long Latour -had been at the Seminary. - -"Have you always intended to take orders? So have I, but I very nearly -went into the army instead." - -The year previous, after the surrender of Algiers, there had been a -military review at Clermont, a great display of uniforms and military -bands, and stirring speeches about the glory of French arms. Young -Joseph Vaillant had lost his head in the excitement, and had signed up -for a volunteer without consulting his father. He gave Latour a vivid -account of his patriotic emotions, of his father's displeasure, and his -own subsequent remorse. His mother had wished him to become a priest. -She died when he was thirteen, and ever since then he had meant to carry -out her wish and to dedicate his life to the service of the Divine -Mother. But that one day, among the bands and the uniforms, he had -forgotten everything but his desire to serve France. - -Suddenly young Vaillant broke off, saying that he must write a letter -before the hour was over, and tucking up his gown he ran away at full -speed. Latour stood looking after him, resolved that he would take this -new boy under his protection. There was something about the baker's son -that had given their meeting the colour of an adventure; he meant to -repeat it. In that first encounter, he chose the lively, ugly boy for -his friend. It was instantaneous. Latour himself was much cooler and -more critical in temper; hard to please, and often a little grey in -mood. - -During their Seminary years he had easily surpassed his friend in -scholarship, but he always realized that Joseph excelled him in the -fervour of his faith. After they became missionaries, Joseph had learned -to speak English, and later, Spanish, more readily than he. To be sure, -he spoke both languages very incorrectly at first, but he had no vanity -about grammar or refinement of phrase. To communicate with peons, he was -quite willing to speak like a peon. - -Though the Bishop had worked with Father Joseph for twenty-five years -now, he could not reconcile the contradictions of his nature. He simply -accepted them, and, when Joseph had been away for a long while, realized -that he loved them all. His Vicar was one of the most truly spiritual -men he had ever known, though he was so passionately attached to many of -the things of this world. Fond as he was of good eating and drinking, he -not only rigidly observed all the fasts of the Church, but he never -complained about the hardness and scantiness of the fare on his long -missionary journeys. Father Joseph's relish for good wine might have -been a fault in another man. But always frail in body, he seemed to need -some quick physical stimulant to support his sudden flights of purpose -and imagination. Time and again the Bishop had seen a good dinner, a -bottle of claret, transformed into spiritual energy under his very eyes. -From a little feast that would make other men heavy and desirous of -repose, Father Vaillant would rise up revived, and work for ten or -twelve hours with that ardour and thoroughness which accomplished such -lasting results. - -The Bishop had often been embarrassed by his Vicar's persistence in -begging for the parish, for the Cathedral fund and the distant missions. -Yet for himself, Father Joseph was scarcely acquisitive to the point of -decency. He owned nothing in the world but his mule, Contento. Though he -received rich vestments from his sister in Riom, his daily apparel was -rough and shabby. The Bishop had a large and valuable library, at least, -and many comforts for his house. There were his beautiful skins and -blankets--presents from Eusabio and his other Indian friends. The -Mexican women, skilled in needlework and lace-making and hem-stitching, -presented him with fine linen for his person, his bed, and his table. He -had silver plate, given him by the Olivares and others of his rich -parishioners. But Father Vaillant was like the saints of the early -Church, literally without personal possessions. - -In his youth, Joseph had wished to lead a life of seclusion and solitary -devotion; but the truth was, he could not be happy for long without -human intercourse. And he liked almost everyone. In Ohio, when they used -to travel together in stagecoaches, Father Latour had noticed that every -time a new passenger pushed his way into the already crowded stage, -Joseph would look pleased and interested, as if this were an agreeable -addition--whereas he himself felt annoyed, even if he concealed it. The -ugly conditions of life in Ohio had never troubled Joseph. The hideous -houses and churches, the ill-kept farms and gardens, the slovenly, -sordid aspect of the towns and country-side, which continually depressed -Father Latour, he seemed scarcely to perceive. One would have said he -had no feeling for comeliness or grace. Yet music was a passion with -him. In Sandusky it had been his delight to spend evening after evening -with his German choir-master, training the young people to sing Bach -oratorios. - -Nothing one could say of Father Vaillant explained him. The man was much -greater than the sum of his qualities. He added a glow to whatever kind -of human society he was dropped down into. A Navajo hogan, some abjectly -poor little huddle of Mexican huts, or a company of Monsignori and -Cardinals at Rome--it was all the same. - -The last time the Bishop was in Rome he had heard an amusing story from -Monsignor Mazzucchi, who had been secretary to Gregory XVI at the time -when Father Vaillant went from his Ohio mission for his first visit to -the Holy City. - -Joseph had stayed in Rome for three months, living on about forty cents -a day and leaving nothing unseen. He several times asked Mazzucchi to -secure him a private audience with the Pope. The secretary liked the -missionary from Ohio; there was something abrupt and lively and naïf -about him, a kind of freshness he did not often find in the priests who -flocked to Rome. So he arranged an interview at which only the Holy -Father and Father Vaillant and Mazzucchi were present. - -The missionary came in, attended by a chamberlain who carried two great -black valises full of objects to be blessed--instead of one, as was -customary. After his reception, Father Joseph began to pour out such a -vivid account of his missions and brother missionaries, that both the -Holy Father and the secretary forgot to take account of time, and the -audience lasted three times as long as such interviews were supposed to -last. Gregory XVI, that aristocratic and autocratic prelate, who stood -so consistently on the wrong side in European politics, and was the -enemy of Free Italy, had done more than any of his predecessors to -propagate the Faith in remote parts of the world. And here was a -missionary after his own heart. Father Vaillant asked for blessings for -himself, his fellow priests, his missions, his Bishop. He opened his big -valises like pedlars' packs, full of crosses, rosaries, prayer-books, -medals, breviaries, on which he begged more than the usual blessing. The -astonished chamberlain had come and gone several times, and Mazzucchi at -last reminded the Holy Father that he had other engagements. Father -Vaillant caught up his two valises himself, the chamberlain not being -there at the moment, and thus laden, was bowing himself backward out of -the presence, when the Pope rose from his chair and lifted his hand, not -in benediction but in salutation, and called out to the departing -missionary, as one man to another, "_Coraggio, Americano_!" - - -Bishop Latour found his Navajo house favourable for reflection, for -recalling the past and planning the future. He wrote long letters to his -brother and to old friends in France. The hogan was isolated like a -ship's cabin on the ocean, with the murmuring of great winds about it. -There was no opening except the door, always open, and the air without -had the turbid yellow light of sand-storms. All day long the sand came -in through the cracks in the walls and formed little ridges on the earth -floor. It rattled like sleet upon the dead leaves of the tree-branch -roof. This house was so frail a shelter that one seemed to be sitting in -the heart of a world made of dusty earth and moving air. - - - - -4 - -EUSABIO - - -ON the third day of his visit with Eusabio, the Bishop wrote a somewhat -formal letter of recall to his Vicar, and then went for his daily walk -in the desert. He stayed out until sunset, when the wind fell and the -air cleared, to a crystal sharpness. As he was returning, still a mile -or more up the river, he heard the deep sound of a cottonwood drum, -beaten softly. He surmised that the sound came from Eusabio's house, and -that his friend was at home. - -Retracing his steps to the settlement, Father Latour found Eusabio -seated beside his doorway, singing in the Navajo language and beating -softly on one end of his long drum. Before him two very little Indian -boys, about four and five years old, were dancing to the music, on the -hard beaten ground. Two women, Eusabio's wife and sister, looked on from -the deep twilight of the hut. - -The little boys did not notice the stranger's approach. They were -entirely engrossed in their occupation, their faces serious, their -chocolate-coloured eyes half closed. The Bishop stood watching the -flowing, supple movements of their arms and shoulders, the sure rhythm -of their tiny moccasined feet, no larger than cottonwood leaves, as -without a word of instruction they followed the irregular and -strangely-accented music. Eusabio himself wore an expression of -religious gravity. He sat with the drum between his knees, his broad -shoulders bent forward; a crimson _banda_ covered his forehead to hold -his black hair. The silver on his dark wrists glittered as he stroked -the drum-head with a stick or merely tapped it with his fingers. When he -finished the song he was singing, he rose and introduced the little -boys, his nephews, by their Indian names, Eagle Feather and Medicine -Mountain, after which he nodded to them in dismissal. They vanished into -the house. Eusabio handed the drum to his wife and walked away with his -guest. - -"Eusabio," said the Bishop, "I want to send a letter to Father Vaillant, -at Tucson. I will send Jacinto with it, provided you can spare me one of -your people to accompany me back to Santa Fé." - -"I myself will ride with you to the Villa," said Eusabio. The Navajos -still called the capital by its old name. - -Accordingly, on the following morning, Jacinto was dispatched southward, -and Father Latour and Eusabio, with their pack-mule, rode to the east. - -The ride back to Santa Fé was something under four hundred miles. The -weather alternated between blinding sand-storms and brilliant sunlight. -The sky was as full of motion and change as the desert beneath it was -monotonous and still,--and there was so much sky, more than at sea, more -than anywhere else in the world. The plain was there, under one's feet, -but what one saw when one looked about was that brilliant blue world of -stinging air and moving cloud. Even the mountains were mere ant-hills -under it. Elsewhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here the earth -was the floor of the sky. The landscape one longed for when one was far -away, the thing all about one, the world one actually lived in, was the -sky, the sky! - -Travelling with Eusabio was like travelling with the landscape made -human. He accepted chance and weather as the country did, with a sort of -grave enjoyment. He talked little, ate little, slept anywhere, preserved -a countenance open and warm, and like Jacinto he had unfailing good -manners. The Bishop was rather surprised that he stopped so often by the -way to gather flowers. One morning he came back with the mules, holding -a bunch of crimson flowers--long, tube-shaped bells, that hung lightly -from one side of a naked stem and trembled in the wind. - -"The Indians call rainbow flower," he said, holding them up and making -the red tubes quiver. "It is early for these." - -When they left the rock or tree or sand dune that had sheltered them for -the night, the Navajo was careful to obliterate every trace of their -temporary occupation. He buried the embers of the fire and the remnants -of food, unpiled any stones he had piled together, filled up the holes -he had scooped in the sand. Since this was exactly Jacinto's procedure, -Father Latour judged that, just as it was the white man's way to assert -himself in any landscape, to change it, make it over a little (at least -to leave some mark or memorial of his sojourn), it was the Indian's way -to pass through a country without disturbing anything; to pass and leave -no trace, like fish through the water, or birds through the air. - -It was the Indian manner to vanish into the landscape, not to stand out -against it. The Hopi villages that were set upon rock mesas, were made -to look like the rock on which they sat, were imperceptible at a -distance. The Navajo hogans, among the sand and willows, were made of -sand and willows. None of the pueblos would at that time admit glass -windows into their dwellings. The reflection of the sun on the glazing -was to them ugly and unnatural--even dangerous. Moreover, these Indians -disliked novelty and change. They came and went by the old paths worn -into the rock by the feet of their fathers, used the old natural -stairway of stone to climb to their mesa towns, carried water from the -old springs, even after white men had dug wells. - -In the working of silver or drilling of turquoise the Indians had -exhaustless patience; upon their blankets and belts and ceremonial robes -they lavished their skill and pains. But their conception of decoration -did not extend to the landscape. They seemed to have none of the -European's desire to "master" nature, to arrange and re-create. They -spent their ingenuity in the other direction; in accommodating -themselves to the scene in which they found themselves. This was not so -much from indolence, the Bishop thought, as from an inherited caution -and respect. It was as if the great country were asleep, and they wished -to carry on their lives without awakening it; or as if the spirits of -earth and air and water were things not to antagonize and arouse. When -they hunted, it was with the same discretion; an Indian hunt was never -a slaughter. They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they -irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The -land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not -attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it. - -As Father Latour and Eusabio approached Albuquerque, they occasionally -fell in with company; Indians going to and fro on the long winding -trails across the plain, or up into the Sandia mountains. They had all -of them the same quiet way of moving, whether their pace was swift or -slow, and the same unobtrusive demeanour: an Indian wrapped in his -bright blanket, seated upon his mule or walking beside it, moving -through the pale new-budding sage-brush, winding among the sand waves, -as if it were his business to pass unseen and unheard through a country -awakening with spring. - -North of Laguna two Zuñi runners sped by them, going somewhere east on -"Indian business." They saluted Eusabio by gestures with the open palm, -but did not stop. They coursed over the sand with the fleetness of young -antelope, their bodies disappearing and reappearing among the sand -dunes, like the shadows that eagles cast in their strong, unhurried -flight. - - - - -BOOK EIGHT - -_GOLD UNDER PIKE'S PEAK_ - - - - -1 - -CATHEDRAL - - -FATHER VAILLANT had been in Santa Fé nearly three weeks, and as yet -nothing had been revealed to him that warranted his Bishop in calling -him back from Tucson. One morning Fructosa came into the garden to tell -him that lunch would be earlier than usual, as the Bishop was going to -ride somewhere that afternoon. Half an hour later he joined his superior -in the dining-room. - -The Bishop seldom lunched alone. That was the hour when he could most -conveniently entertain a priest from one of the distant parishes, an -army officer, an American trader, a visitor from Old Mexico or -California. He had no parlour--his dining-room served that purpose. It -was long and cool, with windows only at the west end, opening into the -garden. The green jalousies let in a tempered light. Sunbeams played on -the white, rounded walls and twinkled on the glass and silver of the -sideboard. When Madame Olivares left Santa Fé to return to New Orleans -and sold her effects at auction, Father Latour bought her sideboard, and -the dining-table around which friends had so often gathered. Doña -Isabella gave him her silver coffee service and candelabra for -remembrance. They were the only ornaments of the severe and shadowy -room. - -The Bishop was already at his place when Father Joseph entered. -"Fructosa has told you why we are lunching early? We will take a ride -this afternoon. I have something to show you." - -"Very good. Perhaps you have noticed that I am a little restless. I -don't know when I have been two weeks out of the saddle before. When I -go to visit Contento in his stall, he looks at me reprovingly. He will -grow too fat." - -The Bishop smiled, with a shade of sarcasm on his upper lip. He knew his -Joseph. "Ah, well," he said carelessly, "a little rest will not hurt -him, after coming six hundred miles from Tucson. You can take him out -this afternoon, and I will ride Angelica." - -The two priests left Santa Fé a little after midday, riding west. The -Bishop did not disclose his objective, and the Vicar asked no questions. -Soon they left the wagon road and took a trail running straight south, -through an empty greasewood country sloping gradually in the direction -of the naked, blue Sandia mountains. - -At about four o'clock they came out upon a ridge high over the Rio -Grande valley. The trail dropped down a long decline at this point and -wound about the foot of the Sandias into Albuquerque, some sixty miles -away. This ridge was covered with cone-shaped, rocky hills, thinly clad -with piñons, and the rock was a curious shade of green, something -between sea-green and olive. The thin, pebbly earth, which was merely -the rock pulverized by weather, had the same green tint. Father Latour -rode to an isolated hill that beetled over the western edge of the -ridge, just where the trail descended. This hill stood up high and quite -alone, boldly facing the declining sun and the blue Sandias. As they -drew close to it, Father Vaillant noticed that on the western face the -earth had been scooped away, exposing a rugged wall of rock--not green -like the surrounding hills, but yellow, a strong golden ochre, very much -like the gold of the sunlight that was now beating upon it. Picks and -crowbars lay about, and fragments of stone, freshly broken off. - -"It is curious, is it not, to find one yellow hill among all these green -ones?" remarked the Bishop, stooping to pick up a piece of the stone. "I -have ridden over these hills in every direction, but this is the only -one of its kind." He stood regarding the chip of yellow rock that lay in -his palm. As he had a very special way of handling objects that were -sacred, he extended that manner to things which he considered beautiful. -After a moment of silence he looked up at the rugged wall, gleaming gold -above them. "That hill, _Blanchet_, is my Cathedral." - -Father Joseph looked at his Bishop, then at the cliff, blinking. -"_Vraiment_? Is the stone hard enough? A good colour, certainly; -something like the colonnade of St. Peter's." - -The Bishop smoothed the piece of rock with his thumb. "It is more like -something nearer home--I mean, nearer Clermont. When I look up at this -rock I can almost feel the Rhone behind me." - -"Ah, you mean the old Palace of the Popes, at Avignon! Yes, you are -right, it is very like. At this hour, it is like this." - -The Bishop sat down on a boulder, still looking up at the cliff. "It is -the stone I have always wanted, and I found it quite by chance. I was -coming back from Isleta. I had been to see old Padre Jesus when he was -dying. I had never come by this trail, but when I reached Santo Domingo -I found the road so washed by a heavy rain that I turned out and decided -to try this way home. I rode up here from the west in the late -afternoon; this hill confronted me as it confronts us now, and I knew -instantly that it was my Cathedral." - -"Oh, such things are never accidents, Jean. But it will be a long while -before you can think of building." - -"Not so very long, I hope. I should like to complete it before I die--if -God so wills. I wish to leave nothing to chance, or to the mercy of -American builders. I had rather keep the old adobe church we have now -than help to build one of those horrible structures they are putting up -in the Ohio cities. I want a plain church, but I want a good one. I -shall certainly never lift my hand to build a clumsy affair of red -brick, like an English coach-house. Our own Midi Romanesque is the right -style for this country." - -Father Vaillant sniffed and wiped his glasses. "If you once begin -thinking about architects and styles, Jean! And if you don't get -American builders, whom will you get, pray?" - -"I have an old friend in Toulouse who is a very fine architect. I talked -this matter over with him when I was last at home. He cannot come -himself; he is afraid of the long sea voyage, and not used to horseback -travel. But he has a young son, still at his studies, who is eager to -undertake the work. Indeed, his father writes me that it has become the -young man's dearest ambition to build the first Romanesque church in the -New World. He will have studied the right models; he thinks our old -churches of the Midi the most beautiful in France. When we are ready, he -will come and bring with him a couple of good French stone-cutters. They -will certainly be no more expensive than workmen from St. Louis. Now -that I have found exactly the stone I want, my Cathedral seems to me -already begun. This hill is only about fifteen miles from Santa Fé; -there is an up-grade, but it is gradual. Hauling the stone will be -easier than I could have hoped for." - -"You plan far ahead," Father Vaillant looked at his friend wonderingly. -"Well, that is what a Bishop should be able to do. As for me, I see only -what is under my nose. But I had no idea you were going in for fine -building, when everything about us is so poor--and we ourselves are so -poor." - -"But the Cathedral is not for us, Father Joseph. We build for the -future--better not lay a stone unless we can do that. It would be a -shame to any man coming from a Seminary that is one of the architectural -treasures of France, to make another ugly church on this continent where -there are so many already." - -"You are probably right. I had never thought of it before. It never -occurred to me that we could have anything but an Ohio church here. Your -ancestors helped to build Clermont Cathedral, I remember; two building -Bishops de la Tour back in the thirteenth century. Time brings things to -pass, certainly. I had no idea you were taking all this so much to -heart." - -Father Latour laughed. "Is a cathedral a thing to be taken lightly, -after all?" - -"Oh, no, certainly not!" Father Vaillant moved his shoulders uneasily. -He did not himself know why he hung back in this. - -The base of the hill before which they stood was already in shadow, -subdued to the tone of rich yellow clay, but the top was still melted -gold--a colour that throbbed in the last rays of the sun. The Bishop -turned away at last with a sigh of deep content. "Yes," he said slowly, -"that rock will do very well. And now we must be starting home. Every -time I come here, I like this stone better. I could hardly have hoped -that God would gratify my personal taste, my vanity, if you will, in -this way. I tell you, _Blanchet_, I would rather have found that hill of -yellow rock than have come into a fortune to spend in charity. The -Cathedral is near my heart, for many reasons. I hope you do not think me -very worldly." - -As they rode home through the sage-brush silvered by moonlight, Father -Vaillant was still wondering why he had been called home from saving -souls in Arizona, and wondering why a poor missionary Bishop should care -so much about a building. He himself was eager to have the Cathedral -begun; but whether it was Midi Romanesque or Ohio German in style, -seemed to him of little consequence. - - - - -2 - -A LETTER FROM LEAVENWORTH - - -THE day after the Bishop and his Vicar rode to the yellow rock the -weekly post arrived at Santa Fé. It brought the Bishop many letters, -and he was shut in his study all morning. At lunch he told Father -Vaillant that he would require his company that evening to consider with -him a letter of great importance from the Bishop of Leavenworth. - -This letter of many pages was concerned with events that were happening -in Colorado, in a part of the Rocky Mountains very little known. Though -it was only a few hundred miles north of Santa Fé, communication with -that region was so infrequent that news travelled to Santa Fé from -Europe more quickly than from Pike's Peak. Under the shadow of that peak -rich gold deposits had been discovered within the last year, but Father -Vaillant had first heard of this through a letter from France. Word of -it had reached the Atlantic coast, crossed to Europe, and come from -there back to the South-west, more quickly than it could filter down -through the few hundred miles of unexplored mountains and gorges between -Cripple Creek and Santa Fé. While Father Vaillant was at Tucson he had -received a letter from his brother Marius, in Auvergne, and was vexed -that so much of it was taken up with inquiries about the gold rush to -Colorado, of which he had never heard, while Marius gave him but little -news of the war in Italy, which seemed relatively near and much more -important. - -That congested heaping up of the Rocky Mountain chain about Pike's Peak -was a blank space on the continent at this time. Even the fur trappers, -coming down from Wyoming to Taos with their pelts, avoided that humped -granite backbone. Only a few years before, Frémont had tried to -penetrate the Colorado Rockies, and his party had come half-starved into -Taos at last, having eaten most of their horses. But within twelve -months everything had changed. Wandering prospectors had found large -deposits of gold near Cripple Creek, and the mountains that were -solitary a year ago were now full of people. Wagon trains were streaming -westward across the prairies from the Missouri River. - -The Bishop of Leavenworth wrote Father Latour that he himself had just -returned from a visit to Cripple Creek. He had found the slopes under -Pike's Peak dotted with camps, the gorges black with placer miners; -thousands of people were living in tents and shacks, Cherry Creek was -full of saloons and gambling-rooms; and among all the wanderers and -wastrels were many honest men, hundreds of good Catholics, and not one -priest. The young men were adrift in a lawless society without spiritual -guidance. The old men died from exposure and mountain pneumonia, with no -one to give them the last rites of the Church. - -This new and populous community must, for the present, the Kansas Bishop -wrote, be accounted under Father Latour's jurisdiction. His great -diocese, already enlarged by thousands of square miles to the south and -west, must now, on the north, take in the still undefined but suddenly -important region of the Colorado Rockies. The Bishop of Leavenworth -begged him to send a priest there as soon as possible,--an able one, by -all means, not only devoted, but resourceful and intelligent, one who -would be at his ease with all sorts of men. He must take his bedding and -camp outfit, medicines and provisions, and clothing for the severe -winter. At Camp Denver there was nothing to be bought but tobacco and -whisky. There were no women there, and no cook stoves. The miners lived -on half-baked dough and alcohol. They did not even keep the mountain -water pure, and so died of fever. All the living conditions were -abominable. - -In the evening, after dinner, Father Latour read this letter aloud to -Father Vaillant in his study. When he had finished, he put down the -closely written pages. - -"You have been complaining of inactivity, Father Joseph; here is your -opportunity." - -Father Joseph, who had been growing more and more restless during the -reading of the letter, said merely: "So now I must begin speaking -English again! I can start to-morrow if you wish it." - -The Bishop shook his head. "Not so fast. There will be no hospitable -Mexicans to receive you at the end of this journey. You must take your -living with you. We will have a wagon built for you, and choose your -outfit carefully. Tranquilino's brother, Sabino, will be your driver. -This, I fear, will be the hardest mission you have ever undertaken." - -The two priests talked until a late hour. There was Arizona to be -considered; somebody must be found to continue Father Vaillant's work -there. Of all the countries he knew, that desert and its yellow people -were the dearest to him. But it was the discipline of his life to break -ties; to say farewell and move on into the unknown. - -Before he went to bed that night Father Joseph greased his boots and -trimmed the calloused spots on his feet with an old razor. At the -Mexican village of Chimayo, over toward the Truchas mountains, the good -people were especially devoted to a little equestrian image of Santiago -in their church, and they made him a new pair of boots every few months, -insisting that he went abroad at night and wore out his shoes, even on -horseback. When Father Joseph stayed there, he used to tell them he -wished that, in addition to the consecration of the hands, God had -provided some special blessing for the missionary's feet. - -He recalled affectionately an incident which concerned this Santiago of -Chimayo. Some years ago Father Joseph was asked to go to the _calabozo_ -at Santa Fé to see a murderer from Chimayo. The prisoner proved to be a -boy of twenty, very gentle in face and manner. His name was Ramon -Armajillo. He had been passionately fond of cock-fighting, and it was -his undoing. He had bred a rooster that never lost a battle, but had -slit the necks of cocks in all the little towns about. At last Ramon -brought the bird to Santa Fé to match him with a famous cock there, and -half a dozen Chimayo boys came along and put up everything they had on -Ramon's rooster. The betting was heavy on both sides, and the gate -receipts also were to go to the winner. After a somewhat doubtful -beginning, Ramon's cock neatly ripped the jugular vein of his opponent; -but the owner of the defeated bird, before anyone could stop him, -reached into the ring and wrung the victor's neck. Before he had dropped -the limp bunch of feathers from his hand, Ramon's knife was in his -heart. It all happened in a flash--some of the witnesses even insisted -that the death of the man and the death of the cock were simultaneous. -All agreed that there was not time for a man to catch his breath between -the whirl of the wrist and the gleam of the knife. Unfortunately the -American judge was a very stupid man, who disliked Mexicans and hoped to -wipe out cock-fighting. He accepted as evidence statements made by the -murdered man's friends to the effect that Ramon had repeatedly -threatened his life. - -When Father Vaillant went to see the boy in his cell a few days before -his execution, he found him making a pair of tiny buckskin boots, as if -for a doll, and Ramon told him they were for the little Santiago in the -church at home. His family would come up to Santa Fé for the hanging, -and they would take the boots back to Chimayo, and perhaps the little -saint would say a good word for him. - -Rubbing oil into his boots by candlelight, Father Vaillant sighed. The -criminals with whom he would have to do in Colorado would hardly be of -that type, he told himself. - - - - -3 - -AUSPICE MARIA! - - -THE construction of Father Vaillant's wagon took a month. It must be a -wagon of very unusual design, capable of carrying a great deal, yet -light enough and narrow enough to wind through the mountain gorges -beyond Pueblo,--where there were no roads at all except the rocky -ravines cut out by streams that flowed full in the spring but would be -dry now in the autumn. While his wagon was building, Father Joseph was -carefully selecting his stores, and the furnishings for a small chapel -which he meant to construct of saplings or canvas immediately upon his -arrival at Camp Denver. Moreover, there were his valises full of medals, -crosses, rosaries, coloured pictures and religious pamphlets. For -himself, he required no books but his breviary and the ordinary of the -Mass. - -In the Bishop's courtyard he sorted and re-sorted his cargo, always -finding a more necessary article for which a less necessary had to be -discarded. Fructosa and Magdalena were frequently called upon to help -him, and when a box was finally closed, Fructosa had it put away in the -woodshed. She had noticed the Bishop's brows contract slightly when he -came upon these trunks and chests in his hallway and dining-room. All -the bedding and clothing was packed in great sacks of dressed calfskin, -which Sabino procured from old Mexican settlers. These were already -going out of fashion, but in the early days they were the poor man's -trunk. - -Bishop Latour also was very busy at this time, training a new priest -from Clermont; riding about with him among the distant parishes and -trying to give him an understanding of the people. As a Bishop, he could -only approve Father Vaillant's eagerness to be gone, and the enthusiasm -with which he turned to hardships of a new kind. But as a man, he was a -little hurt that his old comrade should leave him without one regret. He -seemed to know, as if it had been revealed to him, that this was a final -break; that their lives would part here, and that they would never work -together again. The bustle of preparation in his own house was painful -to him, and he was glad to be abroad among the parishes. - -One day when the Bishop had just returned from Albuquerque, Father -Vaillant came in to luncheon in high spirits. He had been out for a -drive in his new wagon, and declared that it was satisfactory at last. -Sabino was ready, and he thought they would start the day after -to-morrow. He diagrammed his route on the table-cloth, and went over the -catalogue of his equipment. The Bishop was tired and scarcely touched -his food, but Father Joseph ate generously, as he was apt to do when -fired by a new project. - -After Fructosa had brought the coffee, he leaned back in his chair and -turned to his friend with a beaming face. "I often think, Jean, how you -were an unconscious agent in the hands of Providence when you recalled -me from Tucson. I seemed to be doing the most important work of my life -there, and you recalled me for no reason at all, apparently. You did not -know why, and I did not know why. We were both acting in the dark. But -Heaven knew what was happening at Cripple Creek, and moved us like -chessmen on the board. When the call came, I was here to answer it--by a -miracle, indeed." - -Father Latour put down his silver coffee-cup. "Miracles are all very -well, Joseph, but I see none here. I sent for you because I felt the -need of your companionship. I used my authority as a Bishop to gratify -my personal wish. That was selfish, if you will, but surely natural -enough. We are countrymen, and are bound by early memories. And that two -friends, having come together, should part and go their separate -ways--that is natural, too. No, I don't think we need any miracle to -explain all this." - -Father Vaillant had been wholly absorbed in his preparations for saving -souls in the gold camps--blind to everything else. Now it came over him -in a flash, how the Bishop had held himself aloof from his activities; -it was a very hard thing for Father Latour to let him go; the loneliness -of his position had begun to weigh upon him. - -Yes, he reflected, as he went quietly to his own room, there was a great -difference in their natures. Wherever he went, he soon made friends that -took the place of country and family. But Jean, who was at ease in any -society and always the flower of courtesy, could not form new ties. It -had always been so. He was like that even as a boy; gracious to -everyone, but known to a very few. To man's wisdom it would have seemed -that a priest with Father Latour's exceptional qualities would have been -better placed in some part of the world where scholarship, a handsome -person, and delicate perceptions all have their effect; and that a man -of much rougher type would have served God well enough as the first -Bishop of New Mexico. Doubtless Bishop Latour's successors would be men -of a different fibre. But God had his reasons, Father Joseph devoutly -believed. Perhaps it pleased Him to grace the beginning of a new era and -a vast new diocese by a fine personality. And perhaps, after all, -something would remain through the years to come; some ideal, or memory, -or legend. - -The next afternoon, his wagon loaded and standing ready in the -courtyard, Father Vaillant was seated at the Bishop's desk, writing -letters to France; a short one to Marius, a long one to his beloved -Philomène, telling her of his plunge into the unknown and begging her -prayers for his success in the world of gold-crazed men. He wrote -rapidly and jerkily, moving his lips as well as his fingers. When the -Bishop entered the study, he rose and stood holding the written pages in -his hand. - -"I did not mean to interrupt you, Joseph, but do you intend to take -Contento with you to Colorado?" - -Father Joseph blinked. "Why, certainly. I had intended to ride him. -However, if you have need for him here----" - -"Oh, no. Not at all. But if you take Contento, I will ask you to take -Angelica as well. They have a great affection for each other; why -separate them indefinitely? One could not explain to them. They have -worked long together." - -Father Vaillant made no reply. He stood looking intently at the pages of -his letter. The Bishop saw a drop of water splash down upon the violet -script and spread. He turned quickly and went out through the arched -doorway. - - -At sunrise next morning Father Vaillant set out, Sabino driving the -wagon, his oldest boy riding Angelica, and Father Joseph himself riding -Contento. They took the old road to the north-east, through the sharp -red sand-hills spotted with juniper, and the Bishop accompanied them as -far as the loop where the road wound out on the top of one of those -conical hills, giving the departing traveller his last glimpse of Santa -Fé. There Father Joseph drew rein and looked back at the town lying -rosy in the morning light, the mountain behind it, and the hills close -about it like two encircling arms. - -"_Auspice, Maria_!" he murmured as he turned his back on these familiar -things. - -The Bishop rode home to his solitude. He was forty-seven years old, and -he had been a missionary in the New World for twenty years--ten of them -in New Mexico. If he were a parish priest at home, there would be -nephews coming to him for help in their Latin or a bit of pocket-money; -nieces to run into his garden and bring their sewing and keep an eye on -his housekeeping. All the way home he indulged in such reflections as -any bachelor nearing fifty might have. - -But when he entered his study, he seemed to come back to reality, to the -sense of a Presence awaiting him. The curtain of the arched doorway had -scarcely fallen behind him when that feeling of personal loneliness was -gone, and a sense of loss was replaced by a sense of restoration. He sat -down before his desk, deep in reflection. It was just this solitariness -of love in which a priest's life could be like his Master's. It was not -a solitude of atrophy, of negation, but of perpetual flowering. A life -need not be cold, or devoid of grace in the worldly sense, if it were -filled by Her who was all the graces; Virgin-daughter, Virgin-mother, -girl of the people and Queen of Heaven: _le rêve suprême de la chair_. -The nursery tale could not vie with Her in simplicity, the wisest -theologians could not match Her in profundity. - -Here in his own church in Santa Fé there was one of these nursery -Virgins, a little wooden figure, very old and very dear to the people. -De Vargas, when he recaptured the city for Spain two hundred years ago, -had vowed a yearly procession in her honour, and it was still one of the -most solemn events of the Christian year in Santa Fé. She was a little -wooden figure, about three feet high, very stately in bearing, with a -beautiful though rather severe Spanish face. She had a rich wardrobe; a -chest full of robes and laces, and gold and silver diadems. The women -loved to sew for her and the silversmiths to make her chains and -brooches. Father Latour had delighted her wardrobe keepers when he told -them he did not believe the Queen of England or the Empress of France -had so many costumes. She was their doll and their queen, something to -fondle and something to adore, as Mary's Son must have been to Her. - -These poor Mexicans, he reflected, were not the first to pour out their -love in this simple fashion. Raphael and Titian had made costumes for -Her in their time, and the great masters had made music for Her, and the -great architects had built cathedrals for Her. Long before Her years on -earth, in the long twilight between the Fall and the Redemption, the -pagan sculptors were always trying to achieve the image of a goddess who -should yet be a woman. - - -Bishop Latour's premonition was right: Father Vaillant never returned to -share his work in New Mexico. Come back he did, to visit his old -friends, whenever his busy life permitted. But his destiny was fulfilled -in the cold, steely Colorado Rockies, which he never loved as he did the -blue mountains of the South. He came back to Santa Fé to recuperate -from the illnesses and accidents which consistently punctuated his way; -came with the Papal Emissary when Bishop Latour was made Archbishop; but -his working life was spent among bleak mountains and comfortless mining -camps, looking after lost sheep. - -Creede, Durango, Silver City, Central City, over the Continental Divide -into Utah,--his strange Episcopal carriage was known throughout that -rugged granite world. - -It was a covered carriage, on springs, and long enough for him to lie -down in at night,--Father Joseph was a very short man. At the back was a -luggage box, which could be made into an altar when he celebrated Mass -in the open, under a pine tree. He used to say that the mountain -torrents were the first road builders, and that wherever they found a -way, he could find one. He wore out driver after driver, and his coach -was repaired so often and so extensively that long before he abandoned -it there was none of the original structure left. - -Broken tongues and singletrees, smashed wheels and splintered axles he -considered trifling matters. Twice the old carriage itself slipped off -the mountain road and rolled down the gorge, with the priest inside. -From the first accident of this kind, Father Vaillant escaped with -nothing worse than a sprain, and he wrote Bishop Latour that he -attributed his preservation to the Archangel Raphael, whose office he -had said with unusual fervour that morning. The second time he rolled -down a ravine, near Central City, his thigh-bone was broken just below -the joint. It knitted in time, but he was lamed for life, and could -never ride horseback again. - -Before this accident befell him, however, he had one long visit among -his friends in Santa Fé and Albuquerque, a renewal of old ties that was -like an Indian summer in his life. When he left Denver, he told his -congregation there that he was going to the Mexicans to beg for money. -The church in Denver was under a roof, but the windows had been boarded -up for months because nobody would buy glass for them. In his Denver -congregation there were men who owned mines and saw-mills and -flourishing businesses, but they needed all their money to push these -enterprises. Down among the Mexicans, who owned nothing but a mud house -and a burro, he could always raise money. If they had anything at all, -they gave. - -He called this trip frankly a begging expedition, and he went in his -carriage to bring back whatever he could gather. When he got as far as -Taos, his Irish driver mutinied. Not another mile over these roads, he -said. He knew his own territory, but here he refused to risk his neck -and the Padre's. There was then no wagon road from Taos to Santa Fé. It -was nearly a fortnight before Father Vaillant found a man who would -undertake to get him through the mountains. At last an old driver, -schooled on the wagon trains, volunteered; and with the help of ax and -pick and shovel, he brought the Episcopal carriage safely to Santa Fé -and into the Bishop's courtyard. - -Once again among his own people, as he still called them, Father Joseph -opened his campaign, and the poor Mexicans began taking dollars out of -their shirts and boots (favourite places for carrying money) to pay for -windows in the Denver church. His petitions did not stop with -windows--indeed, they only began there. He told the sympathetic women of -Santa Fé and Albuquerque about all the stupid, unnecessary discomforts -of his life in Denver, discomforts that amounted to improprieties. It -was a part of the Wild West attitude to despise the decencies of life. -He told them how glad he was to sleep in good Mexican beds once more. In -Denver he lay on a mattress stuffed with straw; a French priest who was -visiting him had pulled out a long stem of hay that stuck through the -thin ticking, and called it an American feather. His dining-table was -made of planks covered with oilcloth. He had no linen at all, neither -sheets nor serviettes, and he used his wornout shirts for face towels. -The Mexican women could scarcely bear to hear of such things. Nobody in -Colorado planted gardens, Father Vaillant related; nobody would stick a -shovel into the earth for anything less than gold. There was no butter, -no milk, no eggs, no fruit. He lived on dough and cured hog meat. - -Within a few weeks after his arrival, six featherbeds were sent to the -Bishop's house for Father Vaillant; dozens of linen sheets, embroidered -pillowcases and table-cloths and napkins; strings of chili and boxes of -beans and dried fruit. The little settlement of Chimayo sent a roll of -their finest blankets. - -As these gifts arrived, Father Joseph put them in the woodhouse, knowing -well that the Bishop was always embarrassed by his readiness to receive -presents. But one morning Father Latour had occasion to go into the -woodhouse, and he saw for himself. - -"Father Joseph," he remonstrated, "you will never be able to take all -these things back to Denver. Why, you would need an ox-cart to carry -them!" - -"Very well," replied Father Joseph, "then God will send me an ox-cart." - -And He did, with a driver to take the cart as far as Pueblo. - -On the morning of his departure for home, when his carriage was ready, -the cart covered with tarpaulins and the oxen yoked, Father Vaillant, -who had been hurrying everyone since the first streak of light, suddenly -became deliberate. He went into the Bishop's study and sat down, talking -to him of unimportant matters, lingering as if there were something -still undone. - -"Well, we are getting older, Jean," he said abruptly, after a short -silence. - -The Bishop smiled. "Ah, yes. We are not young men any more. One of these -departures will be the last." - -Father Vaillant nodded. "Whenever God wills. I am ready." He rose and -began to pace the floor, addressing his friend without looking at him. -"But it has not been so bad, Jean? We have done the things we used to -plan to do, long ago, when we were Seminarians,--at least some of them. -To fulfil the dreams of one's youth; that is the best that can happen to -a man. No worldly success can take the place of that." - -"_Blanchet_," said the Bishop rising, "you are a better man than I. You -have been a great harvester of souls, without pride and without -shame--and I am always a little cold--_un pédant_, as you used to say. -If hereafter we have stars in our crowns, yours will be a constellation. -Give me your blessing." - -He knelt, and Father Vaillant, having blessed him, knelt and was blessed -in turn. They embraced each other for the past--for the future. - - - - -BOOK NINE - -_DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP_ - - - - -1 - - -WHEN that devout nun, Mother Superior Philomène, died at a great age in -her native Riom, among her papers were found several letters from -Archbishop Latour, one dated December 1888, only a few months before his -death. "Since your brother was called to his reward," he wrote, "I feel -nearer to him than before. For many years Duty separated us, but death -has brought us together. The time is not far distant when I shall join -him. Meanwhile, I am enjoying to the full that period of reflection -which is the happiest conclusion to a life of action." - -This period of reflection the Archbishop spent on his little country -estate, some four miles north of Santa Fé. Long before his retirement -from the cares of the diocese, Father Latour bought those few acres in -the red sand-hills near the Tesuque pueblo, and set out an orchard which -would be bearing when the time came for him to rest. He chose this place -in the red hills spotted with juniper against the advice of his friends, -because he believed it to be admirably suited for the growing of fruit. - -Once when he was riding out to visit the Tesuque mission, he had -followed a stream and come upon this spot, where he found a little -Mexican house and a garden shaded by an apricot tree of such great size -as he had never seen before. It had two trunks, each of them thicker -than a man's body, and though evidently very old, it was full of fruit. -The apricots were large, beautifully coloured, and of superb flavour. -Since this tree grew against the hill-side, the Archbishop concluded that -the exposure there must be excellent for fruit. He surmised that the -heat of the sun, reflected from the rocky hill-slope up into the tree, -gave the fruit an even temperature, warmth from two sides, such as -brings the wall peaches to perfection in France. - -The old Mexican who lived there said the tree must be two hundred years -old; it had been just like this when his grandfather was a boy, and had -always borne luscious apricots like these. The old man would be glad to -sell the place and move into Santa Fé, the Bishop found, and he bought -it a few weeks later. In the spring he set out his orchard and a few -rows of acacia trees. Some years afterward he built a little adobe -house, with a chapel, high up on the hill-side overlooking the orchard. -Thither he used to go for rest and at seasons of special devotion. After -his retirement, he went there to live, though he always kept his study -unchanged in the house of the new Archbishop. - - -In his retirement Father Latour's principal work was the training of the -new missionary priests who arrived from France. His successor, the -second Archbishop, was also an Auvergnat, from Father Latour's own -college, and the clergy of northern New Mexico remained predominantly -French. When a company of new priests arrived (they never came singly) -Archbishop S---- sent them out to stay with Father Latour for a few -months, to receive instruction in Spanish, in the topography of the -diocese, in the character and traditions of the different pueblos. - -Father Latour's recreation was his garden. He grew such fruit as was -hardly to be found even in the old orchards of California; cherries and -apricots, apples and quinces, and the peerless pears of France--even the -most delicate varieties. He urged the new priests to plant fruit trees -wherever they went, and to encourage the Mexicans to add fruit to their -starchy diet. Wherever there was a French priest, there should be a -garden of fruit trees and vegetables and flowers. He often quoted to his -students that passage from their fellow Auvergnat, Pascal: that Man was -lost and saved in a garden. - -He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one -hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats -over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle -thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of -Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full -of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost -pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple--the true Episcopal -colour and countless variations of it. - -In the year 1885 there came to New Mexico a young Seminarian, Bernard -Ducrot, who became like a son to Father Latour. The story of the old -Archbishop's life, often told in the cloisters and class-rooms at -Montferrand, had taken hold of this boy's imagination, and he had long -waited an opportunity to come. Bernard was handsome in person and of -unusual mentality, had in himself the fineness to reverence all that was -fine in his venerable Superior. He anticipated Father Latour's every -wish, shared his reflections, cherished his reminiscences. - -"Surely," the Bishop used to say to the priests, "God himself has sent -me this young man to help me through the last years." - - - - -2 - - -THROUGHOUT the autumn of the year '88 the Bishop was in good health. He -had five French priests in his house, and he still rode abroad with them -to visit the nearer missions. On Christmas eve, he performed the -midnight Mass in the Cathedral at Santa Fé. In January he drove with -Bernard to Santa Cruz to see the resident priest, who was ill. While -they were on their way home the weather suddenly changed, and a violent -rain-storm overtook them. They were in an open buggy and were drenched -to the skin before they could reach any Mexican house for shelter. - -After arriving home, Father Latour went at once to bed. During the night -he slept badly and felt feverish. He called none of his household, but -arose at the usual hour before dawn and went into the chapel for his -devotions. While he was at prayer, he was seized with a chill. He made -his way to the kitchen, and his old cook, Fructosa, alarmed at once, put -him to bed and gave him brandy. This chill left him feverish, and he -developed a distressing cough. - -After keeping quietly to his bed for a few days, the Bishop called young -Bernard to him one morning and said: - -"Bernard, will you ride into Santa Fé to-day and see the Archbishop for -me. Ask him whether it will be quite convenient if I return to occupy my -study in his house for a short time. _Je voudrais mourir à Santa Fé_." - -"I will go at once, Father. But you should not be discouraged; one does -not die of a cold." - -The old man smiled. "I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of -having lived." - -From that moment on, he spoke only French to those about him, and this -sudden relaxing of his rule alarmed his household more than anything -else about his condition. When a priest had received bad news from home, -or was ill, Father Latour would converse with him in his own language; -but at other times he required that all conversation in his house should -be in Spanish or English. - -Bernard returned that afternoon to say that the Archbishop would be -delighted if Father Latour would remain the rest of the winter with him. -Magdalena had already begun to air his study and put it in order, and -she would be in special attendance upon him during his visit. The -Archbishop would send his new carriage to fetch him, as Father Latour -had only an open buggy. - -"Not to-day, _mon fils_," said the Bishop. "We will choose a day when I -am feeling stronger; a fair day, when we can go in my own buggy, and you -can drive me. I wish to go late in the afternoon, toward sunset." - -Bernard understood. He knew that once, long ago, at that hour of the -day, a young Bishop had ridden along the Albuquerque road and seen Santa -Fé for the first time... And often, when they were driving into town -together, the Bishop had paused with Bernard on that hill-top from which -Father Vaillant had looked back on Santa Fé, when he went away to -Colorado to begin the work that had taken the rest of his life and made -him, too, a Bishop in the end. - -The old town was better to look at in those days, Father Latour used to -tell Bernard with a sigh. In the old days it had an individuality, a -style of its own; a tawny adobe town with a few green trees, set in a -half-circle of carnelian-coloured hills; that and no more. But the year -1880 had begun a period of incongruous American building. Now, half the -plaza square was still adobe, and half was flimsy wooden buildings with -double porches, scroll-work and jackstraw posts and banisters painted -white. Father Latour said the wooden houses which had so distressed him -in Ohio, had followed him. All this was quite wrong for the Cathedral -he had been so many years in building,--the Cathedral that had taken -Father Vaillant's place in his life after that remarkable man went away. - -Father Latour made his last entry into Santa Fé at the end of a -brilliant February afternoon; Bernard stopped the horses at the foot of -the long street to await the sunset. - -Wrapped in his Indian blankets, the old Archbishop sat for a long while, -looking at the open, golden face of his Cathedral. How exactly young -Molny, his French architect, had done what he wanted! Nothing -sensational, simply honest building and good stone-cutting,--good Midi -Romanesque of the plainest. And even now, in winter, when the acacia -trees before the door were bare, how it was of the South, that church, -how it sounded the note of the South! - -No one but Molny and the Bishop had ever seemed to enjoy the beautiful -site of that building,--perhaps no one ever would. But these two had -spent many an hour admiring it. The steep carnelian hills drew up so -close behind the church that the individual pine trees thinly wooding -their slopes were clearly visible. From the end of the street where the -Bishop's buggy stood, the tawny church seemed to start directly out of -those rose-coloured hills--with a purpose so strong that it was like -action. Seen from this distance, the Cathedral lay against the -pinesplashed slopes as against a curtain. When Bernard drove slowly -nearer, the backbone of the hills sank gradually, and the towers rose -clear into the blue air, while the body of the church still lay against -the mountain. - -The young architect used to tell the Bishop that only in Italy, or in -the opera, did churches leap out of mountains and black pines like that. -More than once Molny had called the Bishop from his study to look at the -unfinished building when a storm was coming up; then the sky above the -mountain grew black, and the carnelian rocks became an intense lavender, -all their pine trees strokes of dark purple; the hills drew nearer, the -whole background approached like a dark threat. - -"Setting," Molny used to tell Father Latour, "is accident. Either a -building is a part of a place, or it is not. Once that kinship is there, -time will only make it stronger." - -The Bishop was recalling this saying of Molny's when a voice out of the -present sounded in his ear. It was Bernard. - -"A fine sunset, Father. See how red the mountains are growing; Sangre de -Cristo." - -Yes, Sangre de Cristo; but no matter how scarlet the sunset, those red -hills never became vermilion, but a more and more intense rose-carnelian; -not the colour of living blood, the Bishop had often reflected, but the -colour of the dried blood of saints and martyrs preserved in old -churches in Rome, which liquefies upon occasion. - - - - -3 - - -THE next morning Father Latour wakened with a grateful sense of nearness -to his Cathedral--which would also be his tomb. He felt safe under its -shadow; like a boat come back to harbour, lying under its own sea-wall. -He was in his old study; the Sisters had sent a little iron bed from the -school for him, and their finest linen and blankets. He felt a great -content at being here, where he had come as a young man and where he had -done his work. The room was little changed; the same rugs and skins on -the earth floor, the same desk with his candlesticks, the same thick, -wavy white walls that muted sound, that shut out the world and gave -repose to the spirit. - -As the darkness faded into the grey of a winter morning, he listened for -the church bells,--and for another sound, that always amused him here; -the whistle of a locomotive. Yes, he had come with the buffalo, and he -had lived to see railway trains running into Santa Fé. He had -accomplished an historic period. - -All his relatives at home, and his friends in New Mexico, had expected -that the old Archbishop would spend his closing years in France, -probably in Clermont, where he could occupy a chair in his old college. -That seemed the natural thing to do, and he had given it grave -consideration. He had half expected to make some such arrangement the -last time he was in Auvergne, just before his retirement from his duties -as Archbishop. But in the Old World he found himself homesick for the -New. It was a feeling he could not explain; a feeling that old age did -not weigh so heavily upon a man in New Mexico as in the Puy-de-Dôm. - -He loved the towering peaks of his native mountains, the comeliness of -the villages, the cleanness of the country-side, the beautiful lines and -the cloisters of his own college. Clermont was beautiful,--but he found -himself sad there; his heart lay like a stone in his breast. There was -too much past, perhaps... When the summer wind stirred the lilacs in the -old gardens and shook down the blooms of the horsechestnuts, he -sometimes closed his eyes and thought of the high song the wind was -singing in the straight, striped pine trees up in the Navajo forests. - -During the day his nostalgia wore off, and by dinner-time it was quite -gone. He enjoyed his dinner and his wine, and the company of cultivated -men, and usually retired in good spirits. It was in the early morning -that he felt the ache in his breast; it had something to do with waking -in the early morning. It seemed to him that the grey dawn lasted so long -here, the country was a long while in coming to life. The gardens and -the fields were damp, heavy-mists hung in the valley and obscured the -mountains; hours went by before the sun could disperse those vapours and -warm and purify the villages. - -In New Mexico he always awoke a young man; not until he rose and began -to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first -consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through the -windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sagebrush and sweet clover; a -wind that made one's body feel light and one's heart cry "To-day, -to-day," like a child's. - -Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble -women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those -light-hearted mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy -again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new -countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear -harvests. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open -range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had -quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of -plowed land, the heaviness of labour and growth and grain-bearing, -utterly destroyed it; one could breathe that only on the bright edges of -the world, on the great grass plains or the sage-brush desert. - -That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long -after his day. He did not know just when it had become so necessary to -him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it. Something -soft and wild and free, something that whispered to the ear on the -pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the -bolts, and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the -blue and gold, into the morning, into the morning! - - - - -4 - - -FATHER LATOUR arranged an order for his last days; if routine was -necessary to him in health, it was even more so in sickness. Early in -the morning Bernard came with hot water, shaved him, and helped him to -bathe. They had brought nothing in from the country with them but -clothing and linen, and the silver toilet articles the Olivares had -given the Bishop so long ago; these thirty years he had washed his hands -in that hammered basin. Morning prayers over, Magdalena came with his -breakfast, and he sat in his easy-chair while she made his bed and -arranged his room. Then he was ready to see visitors. The Archbishop -came in for a few moments, when he was at home; the Mother Superior, the -American doctor. Bernard read aloud to him the rest of the morning; St. -Augustine, or the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or his favourite -Pascal. - -Sometimes, in the morning hours, he dictated to his young disciple -certain facts about the old missions in the diocese; facts which he had -come upon by chance and feared would be forgotten. He wished he could do -this systematically, but he had not the strength. Those truths and -fancies relating to a bygone time would probably be lost; the old -legends and customs and superstitions were already dying out. He wished -now that long ago he had had the leisure to write them down, that he -could have arrested their flight by throwing about them the light and -elastic mesh of the French tongue. - -He had, indeed, for years, directed the thoughts of the young priests -whom he instructed to the fortitude and devotion of those first -missionaries, the Spanish friars; declaring that his own life, when he -first came to New Mexico, was one of ease and comfort compared with -theirs. If he had used to be abroad for weeks together on short rations, -sleeping in the open, unable to keep his body clean, at least he had the -sense of being in a friendly world, where by every man's fireside a -welcome awaited him. - -But the Spanish Fathers who came up to Zuñi, then went north to the -Navajos, west to the Hopis, east to all the pueblos scattered between -Albuquerque and Taos, they came into a hostile country, carrying little -provisionment but their breviary and crucifix. When their mules were -stolen by Indians, as often happened, they proceeded on foot, without a -change of raiment, without food or water. A European could scarcely -imagine such hardships. The old countries were worn to the shape of -human life, made into an investiture, a sort of second body, for man. -There the wild herbs and the wild fruits and the forest fungi were -edible. The streams were sweet water, the trees afforded shade and -shelter. But in the alkali deserts the water holes were poisonous, and -the vegetation offered nothing to a starving man. Everything was dry, -prickly, sharp; Spanish bayonet, juniper, greasewood, cactus; the -lizard, the rattlesnake,--and man made cruel by a cruel life. Those -early missionaries threw themselves naked upon the hard heart of a -country that was calculated to try the endurance of giants. They -thirsted in its deserts, starved among its rocks, climbed up and down -its terrible canyons on stone-bruised feet, broke long fasts by unclean -and repugnant food. Surely these endured _Hunger_, _Thirst_, _Cold_, -_Nakedness_, of a kind beyond any conception St. Paul and his brethren -could have had. Whatever the early Christians suffered, it all happened -in that safe little Mediterranean world, amid the old manners, the old -landmarks. If they endured martyrdom, they died among their brethren, -their relics were piously preserved, their names lived in the mouths of -holy men. - -Riding with his Auvergnats to the old missions that had been scenes of -martyrdom, the Bishop used to remind them that no man could know what -triumphs of faith had happened there, where one white man met torture -and death alone among so many infidels, or what visions and revelations -God may have granted to soften that brutal end. - -When, as a young man, Father Latour first went down into Old Mexico, to -claim his See at the hands of the Bishop of Durango, he had met on his -journey priests from the missions of Sonora and Lower California, who -related many stories of the blessed experiences of the early Franciscan -missionaries. Their way through the wilderness had blossomed with little -miracles, it seemed. At one time, when the renowned Father Junípero -Serra, and his two companions, were in danger of their lives from trying -to cross a river at a treacherous point, a mysterious stranger appeared -out of the rocks on the opposite shore, and calling to them in Spanish, -told them to follow him to a point farther up the stream, where they -forded in safety. When they begged to know his name, he evaded them and -disappeared. At another time, they were traversing a great plain, and -were famished for water and almost spent; a young horseman overtook them -and gave them three ripe pomegranates, then galloped away. This fruit -not only quenched their thirst, but revived and strengthened them as -much as the most nourishing food could have done, and they completed -their journey like fresh men. - -One night in his travels through Durango, Father Latour was entertained -at a great country estate where the resident chaplain happened to be a -priest from one of the western missions; and he told a story of this -same Father Junípero which had come down in his own monastery from the -old times. - -Father Junípero, he said, with a single companion, had once arrived at -his monastery on foot, without provisions. The Brothers had welcomed the -two in astonishment, believing it impossible that men could have crossed -so great a stretch of desert in this naked fashion. The Superior -questioned them as to whence they had come, and said the mission should -not have allowed them to set off without a guide and without food. He -marvelled how they could have got through alive. But Father Junípero -replied that they had fared very well, and had been most agreeably -entertained by a poor Mexican family on the way. At this a muleteer, who -was bringing in wood for the Brothers, began to laugh, and said there -was no house for twelve leagues, nor anyone at all living in the sandy -waste through which they had come; and the Brothers confirmed him in -this. - -Then Father Junípero and his companion related fully their adventure. -They had set out with bread and water for one day. But on the second day -they had been travelling since dawn across a cactus desert and had begun -to lose heart when, near sunset, they espied in the distance three great -cottonwood trees, very tall in the declining light. Toward these they -hastened. As they approached the trees, which were large and green and -were shedding cotton freely, they observed an ass tied to a dead trunk -which stuck up out of the sand. Looking about for the owner of the ass, -they came upon a little Mexican house with an oven by the door and -strings of red peppers hanging on the wall. When they called aloud, a -venerable Mexican, clad in sheepskins, came out and greeted them kindly, -asking them to stay the night. Going in with him, they observed that all -was neat and comely, and the wife, a young woman of beautiful -countenance, was stirring porridge by the fire. Her child, scarcely more -than an infant and with no garment but his little shirt, was on the -floor beside her, playing with a pet lamb. - -They found these people gentle, pious, and well-spoken. The husband said -they were shepherds. The priests sat at their table and shared their -supper, and afterward read the evening prayers. They had wished to -question the host about the country, and about his mode of life and -where he found pasture for his flock, but they were overcome by a great -and sweet weariness, and taking each a sheepskin provided him, they lay -down upon the floor and sank into deep sleep. When they awoke in the -morning they found all as before, and food set upon the table, but the -family were absent, even to the pet lamb,--having gone, the Fathers -supposed, to care for their flock. - -When the Brothers at the monastery heard this account they were amazed, -declaring that there were indeed three cottonwood trees growing together -in the desert, a well-known landmark; but that if a settler had come, he -must have come very lately. So Father Junípero and Father Andrea, his -companion, with some of the Brothers and the scoffing muleteer, went -back into the wilderness to prove the matter. The three tall trees they -found, shedding their cotton, and the dead trunk to which the ass had -been tied. But the ass was not there, nor any house, nor the oven by the -door. Then the two Fathers sank down upon their knees in that blessed -spot and kissed the earth, for they perceived what Family it was that -had entertained them there. - -Father Junípero confessed to the Brothers how from the moment he -entered the house he had been strangely drawn to the child, and desired -to take him in his arms, but that he kept near his mother. When the -priest was reading the evening prayers the child sat upon the floor -against his mother's knee, with the lamb in his lap, and the Father -found it hard to keep his eyes upon his breviary. After prayers, when he -bade his hosts good-night, he did indeed stoop over the little boy in -blessing; and the child had lifted his hand, and with his tiny finger -made the cross upon Father Junípero's forehead. - -This story of Father Junípero's Holy Family made a strong impression -upon the Bishop, when it was told him by the fireside of that great -hacienda where he was a guest for the night. He had such an affection -for that story, indeed, that he had allowed himself to repeat it on but -two occasions; once to the nuns of Mother Philomène's convent in Riom, -and once at a dinner given by Cardinal Mazzucchi, in Rome. There is -always something charming in the idea of greatness returning to -simplicity--the queen making hay among the country girls--but how much -more endearing was the belief that They, after so many centuries of -history and glory, should return to play Their first parts, in the -persons of a humble Mexican family, the lowliest of the lowly, the -poorest of the poor,--in a wilderness at the end of the world, where the -angels could scarcely find Them! - - - - -5 - - -AFTER his _déjeuner_ the old Archbishop made a pretence of sleeping. He -requested not to be disturbed until dinner-time, and those long hours of -solitude were precious to him. His bed was at the dark end of the room, -where the shadows were restful to his eyes; on fair days the other end -was full of sunlight, on grey days the light of the fire flickered along -the wavy white walls. Lying so still that the bed-clothes over his body -scarcely moved, with his hands resting delicately on the sheet beside -him or upon his breast, the Bishop was living over his life. When he was -otherwise motionless, the thumb of his right hand would sometimes gently -touch a ring on his forefinger, an amethyst with an inscription cut upon -it, _Auspice Maria_,--Father Vaillant's signet-ring; and then he was -almost certainly thinking of Joseph; of their life together here, in this -room ... in Ohio beside the Great Lakes ... as young men in Paris ... as -boys at Montferrand. There were many passages in their missionary -life that he loved to recall; and how often and how fondly he recalled -the beginning of it! - -They were both young men in their twenties, curates to older priests, -when there came to Clermont a Bishop from Ohio, a native of Auvergne, -looking for volunteers for his missions in the West. Father Jean and -Father Joseph heard him lecture at the Seminary, and talked with him in -private. Before he left for the North, they had pledged themselves to -meet him in Paris at a given date, to spend some weeks of preparation at -the College for Foreign Missions in the rue du Bac, and then to sail -with him from Cherbourg. - -Both the young priests knew that their families would strongly oppose -their purpose, so they resolved to reveal it to no one; to make no -adieux, but to steal away disguised in civilian's clothes. They -comforted each other by recalling that St. Francis Xavier, when he set -forth as missionary to India, had stolen away like this; had "_passed -the dwelling of his parents without saluting them_," as they had learned -at school; terrible words to a French boy. - -Father Vaillant's position was especially painful; his father was a -stern, silent man, long a widower, who loved his children with a jealous -passion and had no life but in their lives. Joseph was the eldest child. -The period between his resolve and its execution was a period of anguish -for him. As the date set for their departure drew near, he grew thinner -and paler than ever. - -By agreement the two friends were to meet at dawn in a certain field -outside Riom on the fateful day, and there await the _diligence_ for -Paris. Jean Latour, having made his decision and pledged himself, knew -no wavering. On the appointed morning he stole out of his sister's house -and took his way through the sleeping town to that mountain field, -tip-tilted by reason of its steepness, just beginning to show a cold -green in the heavy light of a cloudy day-break. There he found his -comrade in a miserable plight. Joseph had been abroad in the fields all -night, wandering up and down, finding his purpose and losing it. His -face was swollen with weeping. He shook with a chill, his voice was -beyond his control. - -"What shall I do, Jean? Help me!" he cried. "I cannot break my father's -heart, and I cannot break the vow I have made to Heaven. I had rather -die than do either. Ah, if I could but die of this misery, here, now!" - -How clearly the old Archbishop could recall the scene; those two young -men in the fields in the grey morning, disguised as if they were -criminals, escaping by stealth from their homes. He had not known how to -comfort his friend; it seemed to him that Joseph was suffering more than -flesh could bear, that he was actually being torn in two by conflicting -desires. While they were pacing up and down, arm-in-arm, they heard a -hollow sound; the _diligence_ rumbling down the mountain gorge. Joseph -stood still and buried his face in his hands. The postilion's horn -sounded. - -"_Allons_!" said Jean lightly. "_L'invitation du voyage_! You will -accompany me to Paris. Once we are there, if your father is not -reconciled, we will get Bishop F---- to absolve you from your promise, -and you can return to Riom. It is very simple." - -He ran to the road-side and waved to the driver; the coach stopped. In a -moment they were off, and before long Joseph had fallen asleep in his -seat from sheer exhaustion. But he always said that if Jean Latour had -not supported him in that hour of torment, he would have been a parish -priest in the Puy de Dôm for the rest of his life. - -Of the two young priests who set forth from Riom that morning in early -spring, Jean Latour had seemed the one so much more likely to succeed in -a missionary's life. He, indeed, had a sound mind in a sound body. -During the weeks they spent at the College of Foreign Missions in the -rue du Bac, the authorities had been very doubtful of Joseph's fitness -for the hardships of the mission field. Yet in the long test of years it -was that frail body that had endured more and accomplished more. - -Father Latour often said that his diocese changed little except in -boundaries. The Mexicans were always Mexicans, the Indians were always -Indians. Santa Fé was a quiet backwater, with no natural wealth, no -importance commercially. But Father Vaillant had been plunged into the -midst of a great industrial expansion, where guile and trickery and -honourable ambition all struggled together; a territory that developed -by leaps and bounds and then experienced ruinous reverses. Every year, -even after he was crippled, he travelled thousands of miles by stage and -in his carriage, among the mountain towns that were now rich, now poor -and deserted; Boulder, Gold Hill, Caribou, Cache-à-la-Poudre, Spanish -Bar, South Park, up the Arkansas to Cache Creek and California Gulch. - -And Father Vaillant had not been content to be a mere missionary priest. -He became a promoter. He saw a great future for the Church in Colorado. -While he was still so poor that he could not have a rectory of ordinary -comfort to live in, he began buying up great tracts of land for the -Church. He was able to buy a great deal of land for very little money, -but that little had to be borrowed from banks at a ruinous rate of -interest. He borrowed money to build schools and convents, and the -interest on his debts ate him up. He made long begging trips through -Ohio and Pennsylvania and Canada to raise money to pay this interest, -which grew like a rolling snowball. He formed a land company, went -abroad and floated bonds in France to raise money, and dishonest brokers -brought reproach upon his name. - -When he was nearly seventy, with one leg four inches shorter than the -other, Father Vaillant, then first Bishop of Colorado, was summoned to -Rome to explain his complicated finance before the Papal court,--and he -had very hard work to satisfy the Cardinals. - - -When a dispatch was flashed into Santa Fé announcing Bishop Vaillant's -death, Father Latour at once took the new railroad for Denver. But he -could scarcely believe the telegram. He recalled the old nickname, -Trompe-la-Mort, and remembered how many times before he had hurried -across mountains and deserts, not daring to hope he would find his -friend alive. - -Curiously, Father Latour could never feel that he had actually been -present at Father Joseph's funeral--or rather, he could not believe that -Father Joseph was there. The shrivelled little old man in the coffin, -scarcely larger than a monkey--that had nothing to do with Father -Vaillant. He could see Joseph as clearly as he could see Bernard, but -always as he was when they first came to New Mexico. It was not -sentiment; that was the picture of Father Joseph his memory produced for -him, and it did not produce any other. The funeral itself, he liked to -remember--as a recognition. It was held under canvas, in the open air; -there was not a building in Denver--in the whole Far West, for that -matter,--big enough for his _Blanchet's_ funeral. For two days before, -the populations of villages and mining camps had been streaming down the -mountains; they slept in wagons and tents and barns; they made a throng -like a National Convention in the convent square. And a strange thing -happened at that funeral: - -Father Revardy, the French priest who had gone from Santa Fé to -Colorado with Father Vaillant more than twenty years before, and had -been with him ever since as his curate and Vicar, had been sent to -France on business for his Bishop. While there, he was told by his -physician that he had a fatal malady, and he at once took ship and -hurried homeward, to make his report to Bishop Vaillant and to die in -the harness. When he got as far as Chicago, he had an acute seizure and -was taken to a Catholic hospital, where he lay very ill. One morning a -nurse happened to leave a newspaper near his bed; glancing at it, Father -Revardy saw an announcement of the death of the Bishop of Colorado. When -the Sister returned, she found her patient dressed. He convinced her -that he must be driven to the railway station at once. On reaching -Denver he entered a carriage and asked to be taken to the Bishop's -funeral. He arrived there when the services were nearly half over, and -no one ever forgot the sight of this dying man, supported by the -cab-driver and two priests, making his way through the crowd and -dropping upon his knees beside the bier. A chair was brought for him, -and for the rest of the ceremony he sat with his forehead resting -against the edge of the coffin. When Bishop Vaillant was carried away to -his tomb, Father Revardy was taken to the hospital, where he died a few -days later. It was one more instance of the extraordinary personal -devotion that Father Joseph had so often aroused and retained so long, -in red men and yellow men and white. - - - - -6 - - -DURING those last weeks of the Bishop's life he thought very little -about death; it was the Past he was leaving. The future would take care -of itself. But he had an intellectual curiosity about dying; about the -changes that took place in a man's beliefs and scale of values. More and -more life seemed to him an experience of the Ego, in no sense the Ego -itself. This conviction, he believed, was something apart from his -religious life; it was an enlightenment that came to him as a man, a -human creature. And he noticed that he judged conduct differently now; -his own and that of others. The mistakes of his life seemed unimportant; -accidents that had occurred _en route_, like the shipwreck in Galveston -harbour, or the runaway in which he was hurt when he was first on his -way to New Mexico in search of his Bishopric. - -He observed also that there was no longer any perspective in his -memories. He remembered his winters with his cousins on the -Mediterranean when he was a little boy, his student days in the Holy -City, as clearly as he remembered the arrival of M. Molny and the -building of his Cathedral. He was soon to have done with calendared -time, and it had already ceased to count for him. He sat in the middle -of his own consciousness; none of his former states of mind were lost or -outgrown. They were all within reach of his hand, and all -comprehensible. - -Sometimes, when Magdalena or Bernard came in and asked him a question, -it took him several seconds to bring himself back to the present. He -could see they thought his mind was failing; but it was only -extraordinarily active in some other part of the great picture of his -life--some part of which they knew nothing. - -When the occasion warranted he could return to the present. But there -was not much present left; Father Joseph dead, the Olivares both dead, -Kit Carson dead, only the minor characters of his life remained in -present time. One morning, several weeks after the Bishop came back to -Santa Fé, one of the strong people of the old deep days of life did -appear, not in memory but in the flesh, in the shallow light of the -present; Eusabio the Navajo. Out on the Colorado Chiquito he had heard -the word, passed on from one trading post to another, that the old -Archbishop was failing, and the Indian came to Santa Fé. He, too, was -an old man now. Once again their fine hands clasped. The Bishop brushed -a drop of moisture from his eye. - -"I have wished for this meeting, my friend. I had thought of asking you -to come, but it is a long way." - -The old Navajo smiled. "Not long now, any more. I come on the cars, -Padre. I get on the cars at Gallup, and the same day I am here. You -remember when we come together once to Santa Fé from my country? How -long it take us? Two weeks, pretty near. Men travel faster now, but I do -not know if they go to better things." - -"We must not try to know the future, Eusabio. It is better not. And -Manuelito?" - -"Manuelito is well; he still leads his people." - -Eusabio did not stay long, but he said he would come again to-morrow, as -he had business in Santa Fé that would keep him for some days. He had -no business there; but when he looked at Father Latour he said to -himself, "It will not be long." - -After he was gone, the Bishop turned to Bernard; "My son, I have lived -to see two great wrongs righted; I have seen the end of black slavery, -and I have seen the Navajos restored to their own country." - -For many years Father Latour used to wonder if there would ever be an -end to the Indian wars while there was one Navajo or Apache left alive. -Too many traders and manufacturers made a rich profit out of that -warfare; a political machine and immense capital were employed to keep -it going. - - - - -7 - - -THE Bishop's middle years in New Mexico had been clouded by the -persecution of the Navajos and their expulsion from their own country. -Through his friendship with Eusabio he had become interested in the -Navajos soon after he first came to his new diocese, and he admired -them; they stirred his imagination. Though this nomad people were much -slower to adopt white man's ways than the homestaying Indians who dwelt -in pueblos, and were much more indifferent to missionaries and the white -man's religion, Father Latour felt a superior strength in them. There -was purpose and conviction behind their inscrutable reserve; something -active and quick, something with an edge. The expulsion of the Navajos -from their country, which had been theirs no man knew how long, had -seemed to him an injustice that cried to Heaven. Never could he forget -that terrible winter when they were being hunted down and driven by -thousands from their own reservation to the Bosque Redondo, three -hundred miles away on the Pecos River. Hundreds of them, men, women, and -children, perished from hunger and cold on the way; their sheep and -horses died from exhaustion crossing the mountains. None ever went -willingly; they were driven by starvation and the bayonet; captured in -isolated bands, and brutally deported. - -It was his own misguided friend, Kit Carson, who finally subdued the -last unconquered remnant of that people; who followed them into the -depths of the Canyon de Chelly, whither they had fled from their grazing -plains and pine forests to make their last stand. They were shepherds, -with no property but their live-stock, encumbered by their women and -children, poorly armed and with scanty ammunition. But this canyon had -always before proved impenetrable to white troops. The Navajos believed -it could not be taken. They believed that their old gods dwelt in the -fastnesses of that canyon; like their Shiprock, it was an inviolate -place, the very heart and centre of their life. - -Carson followed them down into the hidden world between those towering -walls of red sandstone, spoiled their stores, destroyed their -deep-sheltered corn-fields, cut down the terraced peach orchards so dear -to them. When they saw all that was sacred to them laid waste, the -Navajos lost heart. They did not surrender; they simply ceased to fight, -and were taken. Carson was a soldier under orders, and he did a -soldier's brutal work. But the bravest of the Navajo chiefs he did not -capture. Even after the crushing defeat of his people in the Canyon de -Chelly, Manuelito was still at large. It was then that Eusabio came to -Santa Fé to ask Bishop Latour to meet Manuelito at Zuñi. As a priest, -the Bishop knew that it was indiscreet to consent to a meeting with this -outlawed chief; but he was a man, too, and a lover of justice. The -request came to him in such a way that he could not refuse it. He went -with Eusabio. - -Though the Government was offering a heavy reward for his person, living -or dead, Manuelito rode off his own reservation down into Zuñi in broad -daylight, attended by some dozen followers, all on wretched, -half-starved horses. He had been in hiding out in Eusabio's country on -the Colorado Chiquito. - -It was Manuelito's hope that the Bishop would go to Washington and plead -his people's cause before they were utterly destroyed. They asked -nothing of the Government, he told Father Latour, but their religion, -and their own land where they had lived from immemorial times. Their -country, he explained, was a part of their religion; the two were -inseparable. The Canyon de Chelly the Padre knew; in that canyon his -people had lived when they were a small weak tribe; it had nourished and -protected them; it was their mother. Moreover, their gods dwelt -there--in those inaccessible white houses set in caverns up in the face -of the cliffs, which were older than the white man's world, and which no -living man had ever entered. Their gods were there, just as the Padre's -God was in his church. - -And north of the Canyon de Chelly was the Shiprock, a slender crag -rising to a dizzy height, all alone out on a flat desert. Seen at a -distance of fifty miles or so, that crag presents the figure of a -one-masted fishing-boat under full sail, and the white man named it -accordingly. But the Indian has another name; he believes that rock was -once a ship of the air. Ages ago, Manuelito told the Bishop, that crag -had moved through the air, bearing upon its summit the parents of the -Navajo race from the place in the far north where all peoples were -made,--and wherever it sank to earth was to be their land. It sank in a -desert country, where it was hard for men to live. But they had found -the Canyon de Chelly, where there was shelter and unfailing water. That -canyon and the Shiprock were like kind parents to his people, places -more sacred to them than churches, more sacred than any place is to the -white man. How, then, could they go three hundred miles away and live in -a strange land? - -Moreover, the Bosque Redondo was down on the Pecos, far east of the Rio -Grande. Manuelito drew a map in the sand, and explained to the Bishop -how, from the very beginning, it had been enjoined that his people must -never cross the Rio Grande on the east, or the Rio San Juan on the -north, or the Rio Colorado on the west; if they did, the tribe would -perish. If a great priest, like Father Latour, were to go to Washington -and explain these things, perhaps the Government would listen. - -Father Latour tried to tell the Indian that in a Protestant country the -one thing a Roman priest could not do was to interfere in matters of -Government. Manuelito listened respectfully, but the Bishop saw that he -did not believe him. When he had finished, the Navajo rose and said: - -"You are the friend of Cristobal, who hunts my people and drives them -over the mountains to the Bosque Redondo. Tell your friend that he will -never take me alive. He can come and kill me when he pleases. Two years -ago I could not count my flocks; now I have thirty sheep and a few -starving horses. My children are eating roots, and I do not care for my -life. But my mother and my gods are in the West, and I will never cross -the Rio Grande." - -He never did cross it. He lived in hiding until the return of his exiled -people. For an unforeseen thing happened: - -The Bosque Redondo proved an utterly unsuitable country for the Navajos. -It could have been farmed by irrigation, but they were nomad shepherds, -not farmers. There was no pasture for their flocks. There was no -firewood; they dug mesquite roots and dried them for fuel. It was an -alkaline country, and hundreds of Indians died from bad water. At last -the Government at Washington admitted its mistake--which governments -seldom do. After five years of exile, the remnant of the Navajo people -were permitted to go back to their sacred places. - -In 1875 the Bishop took his French architect on a pack trip into Arizona -to show him something of the country before he returned to France, and -he had the pleasure of seeing the Navajo horsemen riding free over their -great plains again. The two Frenchmen went as far as the Canyon de -Chelly to behold the strange cliff ruins; once more crops were growing -down at the bottom of the world between the towering sandstone walls; -sheep were grazing under the magnificent cottonwoods and drinking at the -streams of sweet water; it was like an Indian Garden of Eden. - - -Now, when he was an old man and ill, scenes from those bygone times, -dark and bright, flashed back to the Bishop: the terrible faces of the -Navajos waiting at the place on the Rio Grande where they were being -ferried across into exile; the long streams of survivors going back to -their own country, driving their scanty flocks, carrying their old men -and their children. Memories, too, of that time he had spent with -Eusabio on the Little Colorado, in the early spring, when the lambing -season was not yet over,--dark horsemen riding across the sands with -orphan lambs in their arms--a young Navajo woman, giving a lamb her -breast until a ewe was found for it. - -"Bernard," the old Bishop would murmur, "God has been very good to let -me live to see a happy issue to those old wrongs. I do not believe, as I -once did, that the Indian will perish. I believe that God will preserve -him." - - - - -8 - - -THE American doctor was consulting with Archbishop S---- and the Mother -Superior. "It is his heart that is the trouble now. I have been giving -him small doses to stimulate it, but they no longer have any effect. I -scarcely dare increase them; it might be fatal at once. But that is why -you see such a change in him." - -The change was that the old man did not want food, and that he slept, or -seemed to sleep, nearly all the time. On the last day of his life his -condition was pretty generally known. The Cathedral was full of people -all day long, praying for him; nuns and old women, young men and girls, -coming and going. The sick man had received the Viaticum early in the -morning. Some of the Tesuque Indians, who had been his country -neighbours, came into Santa Fé and sat all day in the Archbishop's -courtyard listening for news of him; with them was Eusabio the Navajo. -Fructosa and Tranquilino, his old servants, were with the supplicants in -the Cathedral. - -The Mother Superior and Magdalena and Bernard attended the sick man. -There was little to do but to watch and pray, so peaceful and painless -was his repose. Sometimes it was sleep, they knew from his relaxed -features; then his face would assume personality, consciousness, even -though his eyes did not open. - -Toward the close of day, in the short twilight after the candles were -lighted, the old Bishop seemed to become restless, moved a little, and -began to murmur; it was in the French tongue, but Bernard, though he -caught some words, could make nothing of them. He knelt beside the bed: -"What is it, Father? I am here." - -He continued to murmur, to move his hands a little, and Magdalena -thought he was trying to ask for something, or to tell them something. -But in reality the Bishop was not there at all; he was standing in a -tip-tilted green field among his native mountains, and he was trying to -give consolation to a young man who was being torn in two before his eyes -by the desire to go and the necessity to stay. He was trying to forge a -new Will in that devout and exhausted priest; and the time was short, -for the _diligence_ for Paris was already rumbling down the mountain -gorge. - - -When the Cathedral bell tolled just after dark, the Mexican population -of Santa Fé fell upon their knees, and all American Catholics as well. -Many others who did not kneel prayed in their hearts. Eusabio and the -Tesuque boys went quietly away to tell their people; and the next -morning the old Archbishop lay before the high altar in the church he -had built. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Death comes for the archbishop</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Willa Cather</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 7, 2023 [eBook #69730]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by The Internet Archive.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - -<h2>BY WILLA CATHER</h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<h1>DEATH COMES<br> -FOR THE<br> -ARCHBISHOP</h1> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">"<i>Auspice Maria!</i>"</span><br> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Father Vaillant's signet-ring</span> -</div></div></div> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>NEW YORK<br> -ALFRED A KNOPF—MCMXXVII</b></p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center">COPYRIGHT 1926, 1927, BY WILLA CATHER</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><i>The Works of</i><br> -WILLA CATHER</p> - -<p> -ALEXANDER'S BRIDGE -</p> -<p> -O PIONEERS! -</p> -<p> -THE SONG OF THE LARK -</p> -<p> -MY ANTONIA -</p> -<p> -ONE OF OURS -</p> -<p> -A LOST LADY -</p> -<p> -THE PROFESSOR'S HOUSE -</p> -<p> -MY MORTAL ENEMY -</p> -<p> -YOUTH AND THE BRIGHT MEDUSA -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#Prologue">Prologue. At Rome</a><br> -BOOK<br> -1. <a href="#chap01">The Vicar Apostolic</a><br> - -2. <a href="#chap02">Missionary Journeys</a><br> - -3. <a href="#chap03">The Mass at Ácoma</a><br> - -4. <a href="#chap04">Snake Root</a><br> - -5. <a href="#chap05">Padre Martinez</a><br> - -6. <a href="#chap06">Doña Isabella</a><br> - -7. <a href="#chap07">The Great Diocese</a><br> - -8. <a href="#chap08">Gold under Pike's Peak</a><br> - -9. <a href="#chap09">Death Comes for the Archbishop</a></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>DEATH COMES FOR THE<br> -ARCHBISHOP</h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="Prologue"><i>PROLOGUE</i></a> -<br><br> -AT ROME</h2> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>NE summer evening in the year 1848, three -Cardinals and a missionary Bishop from America were dining together in -the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome. The villa -was famous for the fine view from its terrace. The hidden garden in -which the four men sat at table lay some twenty feet below the south end -of this terrace, and was a mere shelf of rock, overhanging a steep -declivity planted with vineyards. A flight of stone steps connected it -with the promenade above. The table stood in a sanded square, among -potted orange and oleander trees, shaded by spreading ilex oaks that -grew out of the rocks overhead. Beyond the balustrade was the drop into -the air, and far below the landscape stretched soft and undulating; -there was nothing to arrest the eye until it reached Rome itself. -</p> -<p> -It was early when the Spanish Cardinal and his guests sat down to -dinner. The sun was still good for an hour of supreme splendour, and -across the shining folds of country the low profile of the city barely -fretted the sky-line—indistinct except for the dome of St. Peter's, -bluish grey like the flattened top of a great balloon, just a flash of -copper light on its soft metallic surface. The Cardinal had an eccentric -preference for beginning his dinner at this time in the late afternoon, -when the vehemence of the sun suggested motion. The light was full of -action and had a peculiar quality of climax—of splendid finish. It -was both intense and soft, with a ruddiness as of much-multiplied -candlelight, an aura of red in its flames. It bored into the ilex trees, -illuminating their mahogany trunks and blurring their dark foliage; it -warmed the bright green of the orange trees and the rose of the oleander -blooms to gold; sent congested spiral patterns quivering over the damask -and plate and crystal. The churchmen kept their rectangular clerical -caps on their heads to protect them from the sun. The three Cardinals -wore black cassocks with crimson pipings and crimson buttons, the Bishop -a long black coat over his violet vest. -</p> -<p> -They were talking business; had met, indeed, to discuss an anticipated -appeal from the Provincial Council at Baltimore for the founding of an -Apostolic Vicarate in New Mexico—a part of North America recently -annexed to the United States. This new territory was vague to all of -them, even to the missionary Bishop. The Italian and French Cardinals -spoke of it as <i>Le Mexique</i>, and the Spanish host referred to it as -"New Spain." Their interest in the projected Vicarate was tepid, and had to -be continually revived by the missionary, Father Ferrand; Irish by -birth, French by ancestry—a man of wide wanderings and notable -achievement in the New World, an Odysseus of the Church. The language -spoken was French—the time had already gone by when Cardinals could -conveniently discuss contemporary matters in Latin. -</p> -<p> -The French and Italian Cardinals were men in vigorous middle life—the -Norman full-belted and ruddy, the Venetian spare and sallow and -hook-nosed. Their host, Garcia Maria de Allande, was still a young man. -He was dark in colouring, but the long Spanish face, that looked out -from so many canvases in his ancestral portrait gallery, was in the -young Cardinal much modified through his English mother. With his -<i>caffè oscuro</i> eyes, he had a fresh, pleasant English mouth, and an -open manner. -</p> -<p> -During the latter years of the reign of Gregory XVI, de Allande had been -the most influential man at the Vatican; but since the death of Gregory, -two years ago, he had retired to his country estate. He believed the -reforms of the new Pontiff impractical and dangerous, and had withdrawn -from politics, confining his activities to work for the Society for the -Propagation of the Faith—that organization which had been so fostered -by Gregory. In his leisure the Cardinal played tennis. As a boy, in -England, he had been passionately fond of this sport. Lawn tennis had -not yet come into fashion; it was a formidable game of indoor tennis the -Cardinal played. Amateurs of that violent sport came from Spain and -France to try their skill against him. -</p> -<p> -The missionary, Bishop Ferrand, looked much older than any of them, old -and rough—except for his clear, intensely blue eyes. His diocese lay -within the icy arms of the Great Lakes, and on his long, lonely -horseback rides among his missions the sharp winds had bitten him well. -The missionary was here for a purpose, and he pressed his point. He ate -more rapidly than the others and had plenty of time to plead his -cause,—finished each course with such dispatch that the Frenchman -remarked he would have been an ideal dinner companion for Napoleon. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop laughed and threw out his brown hands in apology. "Likely -enough I have forgot my manners. I am preoccupied. Here you can scarcely -understand what it means that the United States has annexed that -enormous territory which was the cradle of the Faith in the New World. -The Vicarate of New Mexico will be in a few years raised to an Episcopal -See, with jurisdiction over a country larger than Central and Western -Europe, barring Russia. The Bishop of that See will direct the beginning -of momentous things." -</p> -<p> -"Beginnings," murmured the Venetian, "there have been so many. But -nothing ever comes from over there but trouble and appeals for money." -</p> -<p> -The missionary turned to him patiently. "Your Eminence, I beg you to -follow me. This country was evangelized in fifteen hundred, by the -Franciscan Fathers. It has been allowed to drift for nearly three -hundred years and is not yet dead. It still pitifully calls itself a -Catholic country, and tries to keep the forms of religion without -instruction. The old mission churches are in ruins. The few priests are -without guidance or discipline. They are lax in religious observance, -and some of them live in open concubinage. If this Augean stable is not -cleansed, now that the territory has been taken over by a progressive -government, it will prejudice the interests of the Church in the whole -of North America." -</p> -<p> -"But these missions are still under the jurisdiction of Mexico, are they -not?" inquired the Frenchman. -</p> -<p> -"In the See of the Bishop of Durango?" added Maria de Allande. -</p> -<p> -The missionary sighed. "Your Eminence, the Bishop of Durango is an old -man; and from his seat to Santa Fé is a distance of fifteen hundred -English miles. There are no wagon roads, no canals, no navigable rivers. -Trade is carried on by means of pack-mules, over treacherous trails. The -desert down there has a peculiar horror; I do not mean thirst, nor -Indian massacres, which are frequent. The very floor of the world is -cracked open into countless canyons and arroyos, fissures in the earth -which are sometimes ten feet deep, sometimes a thousand. Up and down -these stony chasms the traveller and his mules clamber as best they can. -It is impossible to go far in any direction without crossing them. If -the Bishop of Durango should summon a disobedient priest by letter, who -shall bring the Padre to him? Who can prove that he ever received the -summons? The post is carried by hunters, fur trappers, gold seekers, -whoever happens to be moving on the trails." -</p> -<p> -The Norman Cardinal emptied his glass and wiped his lips. -</p> -<p> -"And the inhabitants, Father Ferrand? If these are the travellers, who -stays at home?" -</p> -<p> -"Some thirty Indian nations, Monsignor, each with its own customs and -language, many of them fiercely hostile to each other. And the Mexicans, -a naturally devout people. Untaught and unshepherded, they cling to the -faith of their fathers." -</p> -<p> -"I have a letter from the Bishop of Durango, recommending his Vicar for -this new post," remarked Maria de Allande. -</p> -<p> -"Your Eminence, it would be a great misfortune if a native priest were -appointed; they have never done well in that field. Besides, this Vicar -is old. The new Vicar must be a young man, of strong constitution, full -of zeal, and above all, intelligent. He will have to deal with savagery -and ignorance, with dissolute priests and political intrigue. He must be -a man to whom order is necessary—as dear as life." -</p> -<p> -The Spaniard's coffee-coloured eyes showed a glint of yellow as he -glanced sidewise at his guest. "I suspect, from your exordium, that you -have a candidate—and that he is a French priest, perhaps?" -</p> -<p> -"You guess rightly, Monsignor. I am glad to see that we have the same -opinion of French missionaries." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said the Cardinal lightly, "they are the best missionaries. Our -Spanish fathers made good martyrs, but the French Jesuits accomplish -more. They are the great organizers." -</p> -<p> -"Better than the Germans?" asked the Venetian, who had Austrian -sympathies. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange! The French -missionaries have a sense of proportion and rational adjustment. They -are always trying to discover the logical relation of things. It is a -passion with them." Here the host turned to the old Bishop again. "But -your Grace, why do you neglect this Burgundy? I had this wine brought up -from my cellar especially to warm away the chill of your twenty Canadian -winters. Surely, you do not gather vintages like, this on the shores of -the Great Lake Huron?" -</p> -<p> -The missionary smiled as he took up his untouched glass. "It is superb, -your Eminence, but I fear I have lost my palate for vintages. Out there, -a little whisky, or Hudson Bay Company rum, does better for us. I must -confess I enjoyed the champagne in Paris. We had been forty days at sea, -and I am a poor sailor." -</p> -<p> -"Then we must have some for you." He made a sign to his major-domo. "You -like it very cold? And your new Vicar Apostolic, what will he drink in -the country of bison and <i>serpents à sonnettes</i>? And what will he -eat?" -</p> -<p> -"He will eat dried buffalo meat and frijoles with chili, and he will be -glad to drink water when he can get it. He will have no easy life, your -Eminence. That country will drink up his youth and strength as it does -the rain. He will be called upon for every sacrifice, quite possibly for -martyrdom. Only last year the Indian pueblo of San Fernandez de Taos -murdered and scalped the American Governor and some dozen other whites. -The reason they did not scalp their Padre, was that their Padre was one -of the leaders of the rebellion and himself planned the massacre. That -is how things stand in New Mexico!" -</p> -<p> -"Where is your candidate at present, Father?" -</p> -<p> -"He is a parish priest, on the shores of Lake Ontario, in my diocese. I -have watched his work for nine years. He is but thirty-five now. He came -to us directly from the Seminary." -</p> -<p> -"And his name is?" -</p> -<p> -"Jean Marie Latour." -</p> -<p> -Maria de Allande, leaning back in his chair, put the tips of his long -fingers together and regarded them thoughtfully. -</p> -<p> -"Of course, Father Ferrand, the Propaganda will almost certainly appoint -to this Vicarate the man whom the Council at Baltimore recommends." -</p> -<p> -"Ah yes, your Eminence; but a word from you to the Provincial Council, -an inquiry, a suggestion——" -</p> -<p> -"Would have some weight, I admit," replied the Cardinal smiling. "And -this Latour is intelligent, you say? What a fate you are drawing upon -him! But I suppose it is no worse than a life among the Hurons. My -knowledge of your country is chiefly drawn from the romances of Fenimore -Cooper, which I read in English with great pleasure. But has your priest -a versatile intelligence? Any intelligence in matters of art, for -example?" -</p> -<p> -"And what need would he have for that, Monsignor? Besides, he is from -Auvergne." -</p> -<p> -The three Cardinals broke into laughter and refilled their glasses. They -were all becoming restive under the monotonous persistence of the -missionary. -</p> -<p> -"Listen," said the host, "and I will relate a little story, while the -Bishop does me the compliment to drink my champagne. I have a reason for -asking this question which you have answered so finally. In my family -house in Valencia I have a number of pictures by the great Spanish -painters, collected chiefly by my great-grandfather, who was a man of -perception in these things and, for his time, rich. His collection of El -Greco is, I believe, quite the best in Spain. When my progenitor was an -old man, along came one of these missionary priests from New Spain, -begging. All missionaries from the Americas were inveterate beggars, -then as now, Bishop Ferrand. This Franciscan had considerable success, -with his tales of pious Indian converts and struggling missions. He came -to visit at my great-grandfather's house and conducted devotions in the -absence of the Chaplain. He wheedled a good sum of money out of the old -man, as well as vestments and linen and chalices—he would take -anything—and he implored my grandfather to give him a painting from -his great collection, for the ornamentation of his mission church among the -Indians. My grandfather told him to choose from the gallery, believing -the priest would covet most what he himself could best afford to spare. -But not at all; the hairy Franciscan pounced upon one of the best in the -collection; a young St. Francis in meditation, by El Greco, and the -model for the saint was one of the very handsome Dukes of Albuquerque. -My grandfather protested; tried to persuade the fellow that some picture -of the Crucifixion, or a martyrdom, would appeal more strongly to his -redskins. What would a St. Francis, of almost feminine beauty, mean to -the scalp-takers? -</p> -<p> -"All in vain. The missionary turned upon his host with a reply which has -become a saying in our family: 'You refuse me this picture because it is -a good picture. <i>It is too good for God, but it is not too good for -you</i>.' -</p> -<p> -"He carried off the painting. In my grandfather's manuscript catalogue, -under the number and title of the St. Francis, is written: <i>Given to -Fray Teodocio, for the glory of God, to enrich his mission church at -Pueblo de Cia, among the savages of New Spain</i>. -</p> -<p> -"It is because of this lost treasure, Father Ferrand, that I happen to -have had some personal correspondence with the Bishop of Durango. I once -wrote the facts to him fully. He replied to me that the mission at Cia -was long ago destroyed and its furnishings scattered. Of course the -painting may have been ruined in a pillage or massacre. On the other -hand, it may still be hidden away in some crumbling sacristy or smoky -wigwam. If your French priest had a discerning eye, now, and were sent -to this Vicarate, he might keep my El Greco in mind." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop shook his head. "No, I can't promise you—I do not know. I -have noticed that he is a man of severe and refined tastes, but he is -very reserved. Down there the Indians do not dwell in wigwams, your -Eminence," he added gently. -</p> -<p> -"No matter, Father. I see your redskins through Fenimore Cooper, and I -like them so. Now let us go to the terrace for our coffee and watch the -evening come on." -</p> -<p> -The Cardinal led his guests up the narrow stairway. The long gravelled -terrace and its balustrade were blue as a lake in the dusky air. Both -sun and shadows were gone. The folds of russet country were now violet. -Waves of rose and gold throbbed up the sky from behind the dome of the -Basilica. -</p> -<p> -As the churchmen walked up and down the promenade, watching the stars -come out, their talk touched upon many matters, but they avoided -politics, as men are apt to do in dangerous times. Not a word was spoken -of the Lombard war, in which the Pope's position was so anomalous. They -talked instead of a new opera by young Verdi, which was being sung in -Venice; of the case of a Spanish dancing-girl who had lately become a -religious and was said to be working miracles in Andalusia. In this -conversation the missionary took no part, nor could he even follow it -with much interest. He asked himself whether he had been on the frontier -so long that he had quite lost his taste for the talk of clever men. But -before they separated for the night Maria de Allande spoke a word in his -ear, in English. -</p> -<p> -"You are distrait, Father Ferrand. Are you wishing to unmake your new -Bishop already? It is too late. Jean Marie Latour—am I right?" -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap01"></a>BOOK ONE -<br><br> -<i>THE VICAR APOSTOLIC</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE CRUCIFORM TREE</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>NE afternoon in the autumn of 1851 a -solitary horseman, followed by a pack-mule, was pushing through an arid -stretch of country somewhere in central New Mexico. He had lost his way, -and was trying to get back to the trail, with only his compass and his -sense of direction for guides. The difficulty was that the country in -which he found himself was so featureless—or rather, that it was -crowded with features, all exactly alike. As far as he could see, on -every side, the landscape was heaped up into monotonous red sand-hills, -not much larger than haycocks, and very much the shape of haycocks. One -could not have believed that in the number of square miles a man is able -to sweep with the eye there could be so many uniform red hills. He had -been riding among them since early morning, and the look of the country -had no more changed than if he had stood still. He must have travelled -through thirty miles of these conical red hills, winding his way in the -narrow cracks between them, and he had begun to think that he would -never see anything else. They were so exactly like one another that he -seemed to be wandering in some geometrical nightmare; flattened cones, -they were, more the shape of Mexican ovens than haycocks—yes, -exactly the shape of Mexican ovens, red as brick-dust, and naked of -vegetation except for small juniper trees. And the junipers, too, were -the shape of Mexican ovens. Every conical hill was spotted with smaller -cones of juniper, a uniform yellowish green, as the hills were a uniform -red. The hills thrust out of the ground so thickly that they seemed to -be pushing each other, elbowing each other aside, tipping each other -over. -</p> -<p> -The blunted pyramid, repeated so many hundred times upon his retina and -crowding down upon him in the heat, had confused the traveller, who was -sensitive to the shape of things. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Mais, c'est fantastique</i>!" he muttered, closing his eyes to rest -them from the intrusive omnipresence of the triangle. -</p> -<p> -When he opened his eyes again, his glance immediately fell upon one -juniper which differed in shape from the others. It was not a -thick-growing cone, but a naked, twisted trunk, perhaps ten feet high, -and at the top it parted into two lateral, flat-lying branches, with a -little crest of green in the centre, just above the cleavage. Living -vegetation could not present more faithfully the form of the Cross. -</p> -<p> -The traveller dismounted, drew from his pocket a much worn book, and -baring his head, knelt at the foot of the cruciform tree. -</p> -<p> -Under his buckskin riding-coat he wore a black vest and the cravat and -collar of a churchman. A young priest, at his devotions; and a priest in -a thousand, one knew at a glance. His bowed head was not that of an -ordinary man,—it was built for the seat of a fine intelligence. His -brow was open, generous, reflective, his features handsome and somewhat -severe. There was a singular elegance about the hands below the fringed -cuffs of the buckskin jacket. Everything showed him to be a man of -gentle birth—brave, sensitive, courteous. His manners, even when he -was alone in the desert, were distinguished. He had a kind of courtesy -toward himself, toward his beasts, toward the juniper tree before which -he knelt, and the God whom he was addressing. -</p> -<p> -His devotions lasted perhaps half an hour, and when he rose he looked -refreshed. He began talking to his mare in halting Spanish, asking -whether she agreed with him that it would be better to push on, weary as -she was, in hope of finding the trail. He had no water left in his -canteen, and the horses had had none since yesterday morning. They had -made a dry camp in these hills last night. The animals were almost at -the end of their endurance, but they would not recuperate until they got -water, and it seemed best to spend their last strength in searching for -it. -</p> -<p> -On a long caravan trip across Texas this man had had some experience of -thirst, as the party with which he travelled was several times put on a -meagre water ration for days together. But he had not suffered then as -he did now. Since morning he had had a feeling of illness; the taste of -fever in his mouth, and alarming seizures of vertigo. As these conical -hills pressed closer and closer upon him, he began to wonder whether his -long wayfaring from the mountains of Auvergne were possibly to end here. -He reminded himself of that cry, wrung from his Saviour on the Cross, -"<i>J'ai soif</i>!" Of all our Lord's physical sufferings, only one, "I -thirst," rose to His lips. Empowered by long training, the young priest -blotted himself out of his own consciousness and meditated upon the -anguish of his Lord. The Passion of Jesus became for him the only -reality; the need of his own body was but a part of that conception. -</p> -<p> -His mare stumbled, breaking his mood of contemplation. He was sorrier -for his beasts than for himself. He, supposed to be the intelligence of -the party, had got the poor animals into this interminable desert of -ovens. He was afraid he had been absent-minded, had been pondering his -problem instead of heeding the way. His problem was how to recover a -Bishopric. He was a Vicar Apostolic, lacking a Vicarate. He was thrust -out; his flock would have none of him. -</p> -<p> -The traveller was Jean Marie Latour, consecrated Vicar Apostolic of New -Mexico and Bishop of Agathonica <i>in partibus</i> at Cincinnati a year -ago—and ever since then he had been trying to reach his Vicarate. No -one in Cincinnati could tell him how to get to New Mexico—no one had -ever been there. Since young Father Latour's arrival in America, a -railroad had been built through from New York to Cincinnati; but there -it ended. New Mexico lay in the middle of a dark continent. The Ohio -merchants knew of two routes only. One was the Santa Fé trail from St. -Louis, but at that time it was very dangerous because of Comanche Indian -raids. His friends advised Father Latour to go down the river to New -Orleans, thence by boat to Galveston, across Texas to San Antonio, and -to wind up into New Mexico along the Rio Grande valley. This he had -done, but with what misadventures! -</p> -<p> -His steamer was wrecked and sunk in the Galveston harbour, and he had -lost all his worldly possessions except his books, which he saved at the -risk of his life. He crossed Texas with a traders' caravan, and -approaching San Antonio he was hurt in jumping from an overturning -wagon, and had to lie for three months in the crowded house of a poor -Irish family, waiting for his injured leg to get strong. -</p> -<p> -It was nearly a year after he had embarked upon the Mississippi that the -young Bishop, at about the sunset hour of a summer afternoon, at last -beheld the old settlement toward which he had been journeying so long: -The wagon train had been going all day through a greasewood plain, when -late in the afternoon the teamsters began shouting that over yonder was -the Villa. Across the level, Father Latour could distinguish low brown -shapes, like earthworks, lying at the base of wrinkled green mountains -with bare tops,—wave-like mountains, resembling billows beaten up -from a flat sea by a heavy gale; and their green was of two -colors—aspen and evergreen, not intermingled but lying in solid -areas of light and dark. -</p> -<p> -As the wagons went forward and the sun sank lower, a sweep of red -carnelian-coloured hills lying at the foot of the mountains came into -view; they curved like two arms about a depression in the plain; and in -that depression, was Santa Fé, at last! A thin, wavering adobe town ... -a green plaza ... at one end a church with two earthen towers that rose -high above the flatness. The long main street began at the church, the -town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring. The church -towers, and all the low adobe houses, were rose colour in that -light,—a little darker in tone than the amphitheatre of red hills -behind; and periodically the plumes of poplars flashed like gracious -accent marks,—inclining and recovering themselves in the wind. -</p> -<p> -The young Bishop was not alone in the exaltation of that hour; beside -him rode Father Joseph Vaillant, his boyhood friend, who had made this -long pilgrimage with him and shared his dangers. The two rode into Santa -Fé together, claiming it for the glory of God. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -How, then, had Father Latour come to be here in the sand-hills, many -miles from his seat, unattended, far out of his way and with no -knowledge of how to get back to it? -</p> -<p> -On his arrival at Santa Fé, this was what had happened: The Mexican -priests there had refused to recognize his authority. They disclaimed -any knowledge of a Vicarate Apostolic, or a Bishop of Agathonica. They -said they were under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Durango, and had -received no instructions to the contrary. If Father Latour was to be -their Bishop, where were his credentials? A parchment and letters, he -knew, had been sent to the Bishop of Durango, but these had evidently -got no farther. There was no postal service in this part of the world; -the quickest and surest way to communicate with the Bishop of Durango -was to go to him. So, having travelled for nearly a year to reach Santa -Fé, Father Latour left it after a few weeks, and set off alone on -horseback to ride down into Old Mexico and back, a journey of full -three thousand miles. -</p> -<p> -He had been warned that there were many trails leading off the Rio -Grande road, and that a stranger might easily mistake his way. For the -first few days he had been cautious and watchful. Then he must have -grown careless and turned into some purely local trail. When he realized -that he was astray, his canteen was already empty and his horses seemed -too exhausted to retrace their steps. He had persevered in this sandy -track, which grew ever fainter, reasoning that it must lead somewhere. -</p> -<p> -All at once Father Latour thought he felt a change in the body of his -mare. She lifted her head for the first time in a long while, and seemed -to redistribute her weight upon her legs. The pack-mule behaved in a -similar manner, and both quickened their pace. Was it possible they -scented water? -</p> -<p> -Nearly an hour went by, and then, winding between two hills that were -like all the hundreds they had passed, the two beasts whinnied -simultaneously. Below them, in the midst of that wavy ocean of sand, was -a green thread of verdure and a running stream. This ribbon in the -desert seemed no wider than a man could throw a stone,—and it was -greener than anything Latour had ever seen, even in his own greenest -corner of the Old World. But for the quivering of the hide on his mare's -neck and shoulders, he might have thought this a vision, a delusion of -thirst. -</p> -<p> -Running water, clover fields, cottonwoods, acacias, little adobe houses -with brilliant gardens, a boy-driving a flock of white goats toward the -stream,—that was what the young Bishop saw. -</p> -<p> -A few moments later, when he was struggling with his horses, trying to -keep them from overdrinking, a young girl with a black shawl over her -head came running toward him. He thought he had never seen a kindlier -face. Her greeting was that of a Christian. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Ave Maria Purissima, Señor</i>. Whence do you come?" -</p> -<p> -"Blessed child," he replied in Spanish, "I am a priest who has lost his -way. I am famished for water." -</p> -<p> -"A priest?" she cried, "that is not possible! Yet I look at you, and it -is true. Such a thing has never happened to us before; it must be in -answer to my father's prayers. Run, Pedro, and tell father and -Salvatore." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>HIDDEN WATER</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>N hour later, as darkness came over the -sand-hills, the young Bishop was seated at supper in the motherhouse of -this Mexican settlement—which, he learned, was appropriately -called <i>Agua Secreta</i>, Hidden Water. At the table with him were his -host, an old man called Benito, the oldest son, and two grandsons. The -old man was a widower, and his daughter, Josepha, the girl who had run -to meet the Bishop at the stream, was his housekeeper. Their supper was -a pot of frijoles cooked with meat, bread and goat's milk, fresh cheese -and ripe apples. -</p> -<p> -From the moment he entered this room with its thick whitewashed adobe -walls, Father Latour had felt a kind of peace about it. In its bareness -and simplicity there was something comely, as there was about the -serious girl who had placed their food before them and who now stood in -the shadows against the wall, her eager eyes fixed upon his face. He -found himself very much at home with the four dark-headed men who sat -beside him in the candlelight. Their manners were gentle, their voices -low and agreeable. When he said grace before meat, the men had knelt on -the floor beside the table. The grandfather declared that the Blessed -Virgin must have led the Bishop from his path and brought him here to -baptize the children and to sanctify the marriages. Their settlement was -little known, he said. They had no papers for their land and were afraid -the Americans might take it away from them. There was no one in their -settlement who could read or write. Salvatore, his oldest son, had gone -all the way to Albuquerque to find a wife, and had married there. But -the priest had charged him twenty pesos, and that was half of all he had -saved to buy furniture and glass windows for his house. His brothers and -cousins, discouraged by his experience, had taken wives without the -marriage sacrament. -</p> -<p> -In answer to the Bishop's questions, they told him the simple story of -their lives. They had here all they needed to make them happy. They spun -and wove from the fleece of their flocks, raised their own corn and -wheat and tobacco, dried their plums and apricots for winter. Once a -year the boys took the grain up to Albuquerque to have it ground, and -bought such luxuries as sugar and coffee. They had bees, and when sugar -was high they sweetened with honey. Benito did not know in what year his -grandfather had settled here, coming from Chihuahua with all his goods -in ox-carts. "But it was soon after the time when the French killed -their king. My grandfather had heard talk of that before he left home, -and used to tell us boys about it when he was an old man." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps you have guessed that I am a Frenchman," said Father Latour. -</p> -<p> -No, they had not, but they felt sure he was not an American. José, the -elder grandson, had been watching the visitor uncertainly. He was a -handsome boy, with a triangle of black hair hanging over his rather -sullen eyes. He now spoke for the first time. -</p> -<p> -"They say at Albuquerque that now we are all Americans, but that is not -true, Padre. I will never be an American. They are infidels." -</p> -<p> -"Not all, my son. I have lived among Americans in the north for ten -years, and I found many devout Catholics." -</p> -<p> -The young man shook his head. "They destroyed our churches when they -were fighting us, and stabled their horses in them. And now they will -take our religion away from us. We want our own ways and our own -religion." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour began to tell them about his friendly relations with -Protestants in Ohio, but they had not room in their minds for two ideas; -there was one Church, and the rest of the world was infidel. One thing -they could understand; that he had here in his saddle-bags his -vestments, the altar stone, and all the equipment for celebrating the -Mass; and that to-morrow morning, after Mass, he would hear confessions, -baptize, and sanctify marriages. -</p> -<p> -After supper Father Latour took up a candle and began to examine the -holy images on the shelf over the fire-place. The wooden figures of the -saints, found in even the poorest Mexican houses, always interested him. -He had never yet seen two alike. These over Benito's fire-place had come -in the oxcarts from Chihuahua nearly sixty years ago. They had been -carved by some devout soul, and brightly painted, though the colours had -softened with time, and they were dressed in cloth, like dolls. They -were much more to his taste than the factory-made plaster images in his -mission churches in Ohio—more like the homely stone carvings on -the front of old parish churches in Auvergne. The wooden Virgin was a -sorrowing mother indeed,—long and stiff and severe, very long from -the neck to the waist, even longer from waist to feet, like some of the -rigid mosaics of the Eastern Church. She was dressed in black, with a -white apron, and a black reboso over her head, like a Mexican woman of -the poor. At her right was St. Joseph, and at her left a fierce little -equestrian figure, a saint wearing the costume of a Mexican -<i>ranchero</i>, velvet trousers richly embroidered and wide at the -ankle, velvet jacket and silk shirt, and a high-crowned, broad-brimmed -Mexican sombrero. He was attached to his fat horse by a wooden pivot -driven through the saddle. -</p> -<p> -The younger grandson saw the priest's interest in this figure. "That," -he said, "is my name saint, Santiago." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes; Santiago. He was a missionary, like me. In our country we call -him St. Jacques, and he carries a staff and a wallet—but here he -would need a horse, surely." -</p> -<p> -The boy looked at him in surprise. "But he is the saint of horses. Isn't -he that in your country?" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop shook his head. "No. I know nothing about that. How is he the -saint of horses?" -</p> -<p> -"He blesses the mares and makes them fruitful. Even the Indians believe -that. They know that if they neglect to pray to Santiago for a few -years, the foals do not come right." -</p> -<p> -A little later, after his devotions, the young Bishop lay down in -Benito's deep feather-bed, thinking how different was this night from -his anticipation of it. He had expected to make a dry camp in the -wilderness, and to sleep under a juniper tree, like the Prophet, -tormented by thirst. But here he lay in comfort and safety, with love -for his fellow creatures flowing like peace about his heart. If Father -Vaillant were here, he would say, "A miracle"; that the Holy Mother, to -whom he had addressed himself before the cruciform tree, had led him -hither. And it was a miracle, Father Latour knew that. But his dear -Joseph must always have the miracle very direct and spectacular, not -with Nature, but against it. He would almost be able to tell the colour -of the mantle Our Lady wore when She took the mare by the bridle back -yonder among the junipers and led her out of the pathless sand-hills, as -the angel led the ass on the Flight into Egypt. -</p> - -<div class="tb">* * *</div> - -<p> -In the late afternoon of the following day the Bishop was walking alone -along the banks of the life-giving stream, reviewing in his mind the -events of the morning. Benito and his daughter had made an altar before -the sorrowful wooden Virgin, and placed upon it candles and flowers. -Every soul in the village, except Salvatore's sick wife, had come to the -Mass. He had performed marriages and baptisms and heard confessions and -confirmed until noon. Then came the christening feast. José had killed -a kid the night before, and immediately after her confirmation Josepha -slipped away to help her sisters-in-law roast it. When Father Latour -asked her to give him his portion without chili, the girl inquired -whether it was more pious to eat it like that. He hastened to explain -that Frenchmen, as a rule, do not like high seasoning, lest she should -hereafter deprive herself of her favourite condiment. -</p> -<p> -After the feast the sleepy children were taken home, the men gathered in -the plaza to smoke under the great cottonwood trees. The Bishop, feeling -a need of solitude, had gone forth to walk, firmly refusing an escort. -On his way he passed the earthen thrashing-floor, where these people -beat out their grain and winnowed it in the wind, like the Children of -Israel. He heard a frantic bleating behind him, and was overtaken by -Pedro with the great flock of goats, indignant at their day's -confinement, and wild to be in the fringe of pasture along the hills. -They leaped the stream like arrows speeding from the bow, and regarded -the Bishop as they passed him with their mocking, humanly intelligent -smile. The young bucks were light and elegant in figure, with their -pointed chins and polished tilted horns. There was great variety in -their faces, but in nearly all something supercilious and sardonic. The -angoras had long silky hair of a dazzling whiteness. As they leaped -through the sunlight they brought to mind the chapter in the Apocalypse, -about the whiteness of them that were washed in the blood of the Lamb. -The young Bishop smiled at his mixed theology. But though the goat had -always been the symbol of pagan lewdness, he told himself that their -fleece had warmed many a good Christian, and their rich milk nourished -sickly children. -</p> -<p> -About a mile above the village he came upon the water-head, a spring -overhung by the sharp-leafed variety of cottonwood called water willow. -All about it crowded the oven-shaped hills,—nothing to hint of water -until it rose miraculously out of the parched and thirsty sea of sand. -Some subterranean stream found an outlet here, was released from -darkness. The result was grass and trees and flowers and human life; -household order and hearths from which the smoke of burning piñon logs -rose like incense to Heaven. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop sat a long time by the spring, while the declining sun poured -its beautifying light over those low, rose-tinted houses and bright -gardens. The old grandfather had shown him arrow-heads and corroded -medals, and a sword hilt, evidently Spanish, that he had found in the -earth near the water-head. This spot had been a refuge for humanity long -before these Mexicans had come upon it. It was older than history, like -those well-heads in his own country where the Roman settlers had set up -the image of a river goddess, and later the Christian priests had -planted a cross. This settlement was his Bishopric in miniature; -hundreds of square miles of thirsty desert, then a spring, a village, -old men trying to remember their catechism to teach their grandchildren. -The Faith planted by the Spanish friars and watered with their blood was -not dead; it awaited only the toil of the husbandman. He was not -troubled about the revolt in Santa Fé, or the powerful old native -priest who led it—Father Martinez, of Taos, who had ridden over from -his parish expressly to receive the new Vicar and to drive him away. He -was rather terrifying, that old priest, with his big head, violent -Spanish face, and shoulders like a buffalo; but the day of his tyranny -was almost over. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE BISHOP <i>CHEZ LUI</i></b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T was the late afternoon of Christmas Day, -and the Bishop sat at his desk writing letters. Since his return to -Santa Fé his official correspondence had been heavy; but the -closely-written sheets over which he bent with a thoughtful smile were -not to go to Monsignori, or to Archbishops, or to the heads of religious -houses,—but to France, to Auvergne, to his own little town; to a -certain grey, winding street, paved with cobbles and shaded by tall -chestnuts on which, even to-day, some few brown leaves would be -clinging, or dropping one by one, to be caught in the cold green ivy on -the walls. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop had returned from his long horseback trip into Mexico only -nine days ago. At Durango the old Mexican prelate there had, after some -delay, delivered to him the documents that defined his Vicarate, and -Father Latour rode back the fifteen hundred miles to Santa Fé through -the sunny days of early winter. On his arrival he found amity instead of -enmity awaiting him. Father Vaillant had already endeared himself to the -people. The Mexican priest who was in charge of the pro-cathedral had -gracefully retired—gone to visit his family in Old Mexico, and -carried his effects along with him. Father Vaillant had taken possession -of the priest's house, and with the help of carpenters and the Mexican -women of the parish had put it in order. The Yankee traders and the -military Commandant at Fort Marcy had sent generous contributions of -bedding and blankets and odd pieces of furniture. -</p> -<p> -The Episcopal residence was an old adobe house, much out of repair, but -with possibilities of comfort. Father Latour had chosen for his study a -room at one end of the wing. There he sat, as this afternoon of -Christmas Day faded into evening. It was a long room of an agreeable -shape. The thick clay walls had been finished on the inside by the deft -palms of Indian women, and had that irregular and intimate quality of -things made entirely by the human hand. There was a reassuring solidity -and depth about those walls, rounded at door-sills and window-sills, -rounded in wide wings about the corner fire-place. The interior had been -newly whitewashed in the Bishop's absence, and the flicker of the fire -threw a rosy glow over the wavy surfaces, never quite evenly flat, never -a dead white, for the ruddy colour of the clay underneath gave a warm -tone to the lime wash. The ceiling was made of heavy cedar beams, -overlaid by aspen saplings, all of one size, lying close together like -the ribs in corduroy and clad in their ruddy inner skins. The earth -floor was covered with thick Indian blankets; two blankets, very old, -and beautiful in design and colour, were hung on the walls like -tapestries. -</p> -<p> -On either side of the fire-place plastered recesses were let into the -wall. In one, narrow and arched, stood the Bishop's crucifix. The other -was square, with a carved wooden door, like a grill, and within it lay a -few rare and beautiful books. The rest of the Bishop's library was on -open shelves at one end of the room. -</p> -<p> -The furniture of the house Father Vaillant had bought from the departed -Mexican priest. It was heavy and somewhat clumsy, but not unsightly. All -the wood used in making tables and bedsteads was hewn from tree boles -with the ax or hatchet. Even the thick planks on which the Bishop's -theological books rested were ax-dressed. There was not at that time a -turning-lathe or a saw-mill in all northern New Mexico. The native -carpenters whittled out chair rungs and table legs, and fitted them -together with wooden pins instead of iron nails. Wooden chests were used -in place of dressers with drawers, and sometimes these were beautifully -carved, or covered with decorated leather. The desk at which the Bishop -sat writing was an importation, a walnut "secretary" of American make -(sent down by one of the officers of the Fort at Father Vaillant's -suggestion). His silver candlesticks he had brought from France long -ago. They were given to him by a beloved aunt when he was ordained. -</p> -<p> -The young Bishop's pen flew over the paper, leaving a trail of fine, -finished French script behind, in violet ink. -</p> -<p> -"My new study, dear brother, as I write, is full of the delicious -fragrance of the piñon logs burning in my fire-place. (We use this kind -of cedar-wood altogether for fuel, and it is highly aromatic, yet -delicate. At our meanest tasks we have a perpetual odour of incense -about us.) I wish that you, and my dear sister, could look in upon this -scene of comfort and peace. We missionaries wear a frock-coat and -wide-brimmed hat all day, you know, and look like American traders. What -a pleasure to come home at night and put on my old cassock! I feel more -like a priest then—for so much of the day I must be a 'business -man'!—and, for some reason, more like a Frenchman. All day I am an -American in speech and thought—yes, in heart, too. The kindness of -the American traders, and especially of the military officers at the Fort, -commands more than a superficial loyalty. I mean to help the officers at -their task here. I can assist them more than they realize. The Church -can do more than the Fort to make these poor Mexicans 'good Americans.' -And it is for the people's good; there is no other way in which they can -better their condition. -</p> -<p> -"But this is not the day to write you of my duties or my purposes. -To-night we are exiles, happy ones, thinking of home. Father Joseph has -sent away our Mexican woman,—he will make a good cook of her in time, -but to-night he is preparing our Christmas dinner himself. I had thought -he would be worn out to-day, for he has been conducting a Novena of High -Masses, as is the custom here before Christmas. After the Novena, and -the midnight Mass last night, I supposed he would be willing to rest -to-day; but not a bit of it. You know his motto, 'Rest in action.' I -brought him a bottle of olive-oil on my horse all the way from Durango -(I say 'olive-oil,' because here 'oil' means something to grease the -wheels of wagons!), and he is making some sort of cooked salad. We have -no green vegetables here in winter, and no one seems ever to have heard -of that blessed plant, the lettuce. Joseph finds it hard to do without -salad-oil, he always had it in Ohio, though it was a great extravagance. -He has been in the kitchen all afternoon. There is only an open -fire-place for cooking, and an earthen roasting-oven out in the -courtyard. But he has never failed me in anything yet; and I think I can -promise you that to-night two Frenchmen will sit down to a good dinner -and drink your health." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop laid down his pen and lit his two candles with a splinter -from the fire, then stood dusting his fingers by the deep-set window, -looking out at the pale blue darkening sky. The evening-star hung above -the amber afterglow, so soft, so brilliant that she seemed to bathe in -her own silver light. <i>Ave Maris Stella</i>, the song which one of his -friends at the Seminary used to intone so beautifully; humming it softly -he returned to his desk and was just dipping his pen in the ink when the -door opened, and a voice said, -</p> -<p> -"<i>Monseigneur est servi! Alors, Jean, veux-tu apporter les bougies.</i>" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop carried the candles into the dining-room, where the table was -laid and Father Vaillant was changing his cook's apron for his cassock. -Crimson from standing over an open fire, his rugged face was even -homelier than usual—though one of the first things a stranger decided -upon meeting Father Joseph was that the Lord had made few uglier men. He -was short, skinny, bow-legged from a life on horseback, and his -countenance had little to recommend it but kindliness and vivacity. He -looked old, though he was then about forty. His skin was hardened and -seamed by exposure to weather in a bitter climate, his neck scrawny and -wrinkled like an old man's. A bold, blunt-tipped nose, positive chin, a -very large mouth,—the lips thick and succulent but never loose, never -relaxed, always stiffened by effort or working with excitement. His -hair, sunburned to the shade of dry hay, had originally been -tow-coloured; "<i>Blanchet</i>" ("Whitey") he was always called at the -Seminary. Even his eyes were near-sighted, and of such a pale, watery -blue as to be unimpressive. There was certainly nothing in his outer -case to suggest the fierceness and fortitude and fire of the man, and -yet even the thick-blooded Mexican half-breeds knew his quality at once. -If the Bishop returned to find Santa Fé friendly to him, it was because -everybody believed in Father Vaillant—homely, real, persistent, with -the driving power of a dozen men in his poorly built body. -</p> -<p> -On coming into the dining-room, Bishop Latour placed his candlesticks -over the fire-place, since there were already six upon the table, -illuminating the brown soup-pot. After they had stood for a moment in -prayer, Father Joseph lifted the cover and ladled the soup into the -plates, a dark onion soup with croutons. The Bishop tasted it critically -and smiled at his companion. After the spoon had travelled to his lips a -few times, he put it down and leaning back in his chair remarked, -</p> -<p> -"Think of it, <i>Blanchet</i>; in all this vast country between the -Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean, there is probably not another human -being who could make a soup like this." -</p> -<p> -"Not unless he is a Frenchman," said Father Joseph. He had tucked a -napkin over the front of his cassock and was losing no time in -reflection. -</p> -<p> -"I am not deprecating your individual talent, Joseph," the Bishop -continued, "but, when one thinks of it, a soup like this is not the work -of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There -are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph frowned intently at the earthen pot in the middle of the -table. His pale, near-sighted eyes had always the look of peering into -distance. "<i>C'est ça, c'est vrai</i>," he murmured. "But how," he -exclaimed as he filled the Bishop's plate again, "how can a man make a -proper soup without leeks, that king of vegetables? We cannot go on -eating onions for ever." -</p> -<p> -After carrying away the <i>soupière</i>, he brought in the roast -chicken and <i>pommes sautées</i>. "And salad, Jean," he continued as -he began to carve. "Are we to eat dried beans and roots for the rest of -our lives? Surely we must find time to make a garden. Ah, my garden at -Sandusky! And you could snatch me away from it! You will admit that you -never ate better lettuces in France. And my vineyard; a natural habitat -for the vine, that. I tell you, the shores of Lake Erie will be covered -with vineyards one day. I envy the man who is drinking my wine. Ah well, -that is a missionary's life; to plant where another shall reap." -</p> -<p> -As this was Christmas Day, the two friends were speaking in their native -tongue. For years they had made it a practice to speak English together, -except upon very special occasions, and of late they conversed in -Spanish, in which they both needed to gain fluency. -</p> -<p> -"And yet sometimes you used to chafe a little at your dear Sandusky and -its comforts," the Bishop reminded him—"to say that you would end a -home-staying parish priest, after all." -</p> -<p> -"Of course, one wants to eat one's cake and have it, as they say in -Ohio. But no farther, Jean. This is far enough. Do not drag me any -farther." Father Joseph began gently to coax the cork from a bottle of -red wine with his fingers. "This I begged for your dinner at the -hacienda where I went to baptize the baby on St. Thomas's Day. It is not -easy to separate these rich Mexicans from their French wine. They know -its worth." He poured a few drops and tried it. "A slight taste of the -cork; they do not know how to keep it properly. However, it is quite -good enough for missionaries." -</p> -<p> -"You ask me not to drag you any farther, Joseph. I wish," Bishop Latour -leaned back in his chair and locked his hands together beneath his chin, -"I wish I knew how far this is! Does anyone know the extent of this -diocese, or of this territory? The Commandant at the Fort seems as much -in the dark as I. He says I can get some information from the scout, Kit -Carson, who lives at Taos." -</p> -<p> -"Don't begin worrying about the diocese, Jean. For the present, Santa -Fé is the diocese. Establish order at home. To-morrow I will have a -reckoning with the churchwardens, who allowed that band of drunken -cowboys to come in to the midnight Mass and defile the font. There is -enough to do here. <i>Festina lente</i>. I have made a resolve not to go -more than three days' journey from Santa Fé for one year." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled and shook his head. "And when you were at the -Seminary, you made a resolve to lead a life of contemplation." -</p> -<p> -A light leaped into Father Joseph's homely face. "I have not yet -renounced that hope. One day you will release me, and I will return to -some religious house in France and end my days in devotion to the Holy -Mother. For the time being, it is my destiny to serve Her in action. But -this is far enough, Jean." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop again shook his head and murmured, "Who knows how far?" -</p> -<p> -The vary little priest whose life was to be a succession of mountain -ranges, pathless deserts, yawning canyons and swollen rivers, who was to -carry the Cross into territories yet unknown and unnamed, who would wear -down mules and horses and scouts and stage-drivers, to-night looked -apprehensively at his superior and repeated, "No more, Jean. This is far -enough." Then making haste to change the subject, he said briskly, "A -bean salad was the best I could do for you; but with onion, and just a -suspicion of salt pork, it is not so bad." -</p> -<p> -Over the compote of dried plums they fell to talking of the great yellow -ones that grew in the old Latour garden at home. Their thoughts met in -that tilted cobble street, winding down a hill, with the uneven garden -walls and tall horse-chestnuts on either side; a lonely street after -nightfall, with soft street lamps shaped like lanterns at the darkest -turnings. At the end of it was the church where the Bishop made his -first Communion, with a grove of flat-cut plane trees in front, under -which the market was held on Tuesdays and Fridays. -</p> -<p> -While they lingered over these memories—an indulgence they seldom -permitted themselves—the two missionaries were startled by a volley -of rifle-shots and blood-curdling yells without, and the galloping of -horses. The Bishop half rose, but Father Joseph reassured him with a -shrug. -</p> -<p> -"Do not discompose yourself. The same thing happened here on the eve of -All Souls' Day. A band of drunken cowboys, like those who came into the -church last night, go out to the pueblo and get the Tesuque Indian boys -drunk, and then they ride in to serenade the soldiers at the Fort in -this manner." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b> -<br><br> -<b>A BELL AND A MIRACLE</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>N the morning after the Bishop's return -from Durango, after his first night in his Episcopal residence, he had a -pleasant awakening from sleep. He had ridden into the courtyard after -nightfall, having changed horses at a <i>rancho</i> and pushed on nearly -sixty miles in order to reach home. Consequently he slept late the next -morning—did not awaken until six o'clock, when he heard the -Angelus ringing. He recovered consciousness slowly, unwilling to let go -of a pleasing delusion that he was in Rome. Still half believing that he -was lodged near St. John Lateran, he yet heard every stroke of the Ave -Maria bell, marvelling to hear it rung correctly (nine quick strokes in -all, divided into threes, with an interval between); and from a bell -with beautiful tone. Full, clear, with something bland and suave, each -note floated through the air like a globe of silver. Before the nine -strokes were done Rome faded, and behind it he sensed something Eastern, -with palm trees,—Jerusalem, perhaps, though he had never been -there. Keeping his eyes closed, he cherished for a moment this sudden, -pervasive sense of the East. Once before he had been carried out of the -body thus to a place far away. It had happened in a street in New -Orleans. He had turned a corner and come upon an old woman with a basket -of yellow flowers; sprays of yellow sending out a honey-sweet perfume. -Mimosa—but before he could think of the name he was overcome by a -feeling of place, was dropped, cassock and all, into a garden in the -south of France where he had been sent one winter in his childhood to -recover from an illness. And now this silvery bell note had carried him -farther and faster than sound could travel. -</p> -<p> -When he joined Father Vaillant at coffee, that impetuous man who could -never keep a secret asked him anxiously whether he had heard anything. -</p> -<p> -"I thought I heard the Angelus, Father Joseph, but my reason tells me -that only a long sea voyage could bring me within sound of such a bell." -</p> -<p> -"Not at all," said Father Joseph briskly. "I found that remarkable bell -here, in the basement of old San Miguel. They tell me it has been here a -hundred years or more. There is no church tower in the place strong -enough to hold it—it is very thick and must weigh close upon eight -hundred pounds. But I had a scaffolding built in the churchyard, and -with the help of oxen we raised it and got it swung on crossbeams. I -taught a Mexican boy to ring it properly against your return." -</p> -<p> -"But how could it have come here? It is Spanish, I suppose?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, the inscription is in Spanish, to St. Joseph, and the date is -1356. It must have been brought up from Mexico City in an ox-cart. A -heroic undertaking, certainly. Nobody knows where it was cast. But they -do tell a story about it: that it was pledged to St. Joseph in the wars -with the Moors, and that the people of some besieged city brought all -their plate and silver and gold ornaments and threw them in with the -baser metals. There is certainly a good deal of silver in the bell, -nothing else would account for its tone." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour reflected. "And the silver of the Spaniards was really -Moorish, was it not? If not actually of Moorish make, copied from their -design. The Spaniards knew nothing about working silver except as they -learned it from the Moors." -</p> -<p> -"What are you doing, Jean? Trying to make my bell out an infidel?" -Father Joseph asked impatiently. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled. "I am trying to account for the fact that when I -heard it this morning it struck me at once as something oriental. A -learned Scotch Jesuit in Montreal told me that our first bells, and the -introduction of the bell in the service all over Europe, originally came -from the East. He said the Templars brought the Angelus back from the -Crusades, and it is really an adaptation of a Moslem custom." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sniffed. "I notice that scholars always manage to dig -out something belittling," he complained. -</p> -<p> -"Belittling? I should say the reverse. I am glad to think there is -Moorish silver in your bell. When we first came here, the one good -workman we found in Santa Fé was a silversmith. The Spaniards handed on -their skill to the Mexicans, and the Mexicans have taught the Navajos to -work silver; but it all came from the Moors." -</p> -<p> -"I am no scholar, as you know," said Father Vaillant rising. "And this -morning we have many practical affairs to occupy us. I have promised -that you will give an audience to a good old man, a native priest from -the Indian mission at Santa Clara, who is returning from Mexico. He has -just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and -has been much edified. He would like to tell you the story of his -experience. It seems that ever since he was ordained he has desired to -visit the shrine. During your absence I have found how particularly -precious is that shrine to all Catholics in New Mexico. They regard it -as the one absolutely authenticated appearance of the Blessed Virgin in -the New World, and a witness of Her affection for Her Church on this -continent." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop went into his study, and Father Vaillant brought in Padre -Escolastico Herrera, a man of nearly seventy, who had been forty years -in the ministry, and had just accomplished the pious desire of a -lifetime. His mind was still full of the sweetness of his late -experience. He was so rapt that nothing else interested him. He asked -anxiously whether perhaps the Bishop would have more leisure to attend -to him later in the day. But Father Latour placed a chair for him and -told him to proceed. -</p> -<p> -The old man thanked him for the privilege of being seated. Leaning -forward, with his hands locked between his knees, he told the whole -story of the miraculous appearance, both because it was so dear to his -heart, and because he was sure that no "American" Bishop would have -heard of the occurrence as it was, though at Rome all the details were -well known and two Popes had sent gifts to the shrine. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -On Saturday, December 9th, in the year 1531, a poor neophyte of the -monastery of St. James was hurrying down Tapeyac hill to attend Mass in -the City of Mexico. His name was Juan Diego and he was fifty-five years -old. When he was half way down the hill a light shone in his path, and -the Mother of God appeared to him as a young woman of great beauty, clad -in blue and gold. She greeted him by name and said: -</p> -<p> -"Juan, seek out thy Bishop and bid him build a church in my honour on -the spot where I now stand. Go then, and I will bide here and await thy -return." -</p> -<p> -Brother Juan ran into the City and straight to the Bishop's palace, -where he reported the matter. The Bishop was Zumarraga, a Spaniard. He -questioned the monk severely and told him he should have required a sign -of the Lady to assure him that she was indeed the Mother of God and not -some evil spirit. He dismissed the poor brother harshly and set an -attendant to watch his actions. -</p> -<p> -Juan went forth very downcast and repaired to the house of his uncle, -Bernardino, who was sick of a fever. The two succeeding days he spent in -caring for this aged man who seemed at the point of death. Because of -the Bishop's reproof he had fallen into doubt, and did not return to the -spot where the Lady said She would await him. On Tuesday he left the -City to go back to his monastery to fetch medicines for Bernardino, but -he avoided the place where he had seen the vision and went by another -way. -</p> -<p> -Again he saw a light in his path and the Virgin appeared to him as -before, saying, "Juan, why goest thou by this way?" -</p> -<p> -Weeping, he told Her that the Bishop had distrusted his report, and that -he had been employed in caring for his uncle, who was sick unto death. -The Lady spoke to him with all comfort, telling him that his uncle would -be healed within the hour, and that he should return to Bishop Zumarraga -and bid him build a church where She had first appeared to him. It must -be called the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, after Her dear shrine of -that name in Spain. When Brother Juan replied to Her that the Bishop -required a sign, She said: "Go up on the rocks yonder, and gather -roses." -</p> -<p> -Though it was December and not the season for roses, he ran up among the -rocks and found such roses as he had never seen before. He gathered them -until he had filled his <i>tilma</i>. The <i>tilma</i> was a mantle worn -only by the very poor,—a wretched garment loosely woven of coarse -vegetable fibre and sewn down the middle. When he returned to the -apparition, She bent over the flowers and took pains to arrange them, -then closed the ends of the <i>tilma</i> together and said to him: -</p> -<p> -"Go now, and do not open your mantle until you open it before your -Bishop." -</p> -<p> -Juan sped into the City and gained admission to the Bishop, who was in -council with his Vicar. -</p> -<p> -"Your Grace," he said, "the Blessed Lady who appeared to me has sent you -these roses for a sign." -</p> -<p> -At this he held up one end of his <i>tilma</i> and let the roses fall in -profusion to the floor. To his astonishment, Bishop Zumarraga and his -Vicar instantly fell upon their knees among the flowers. On the inside -of his poor mantle was a painting of the Blessed Virgin, in robes of -blue and rose and gold, exactly as She had appeared to him upon the -hill-side. -</p> -<p> -A shrine was built to contain this miraculous portrait, which since that -day has been the goal of countless pilgrimages and has performed many -miracles. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Of this picture Padre Escolastico had much to say: he affirmed that it -was of marvellous beauty, rich with gold, and the colours as pure and -delicate as the tints of early morning. Many painters had visited the -shrine and marvelled that paint could be laid at all upon such poor and -coarse material. In the ordinary way of nature, the flimsy mantle would -have fallen to pieces long ago. The Padre modestly presented Bishop -Latour and Father Joseph with little medals he had brought from the -shrine; on one side a relief of the miraculous portrait, on the other an -inscription: <i>Non fecit taliter omni nationi</i>. (<i>She hath not dealt -so with any nation</i>.) -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant was deeply stirred by the priest's recital, and after -the old man had gone he declared to the Bishop that he meant himself to -make a pilgrimage to this shrine at the earliest opportunity. -</p> -<p> -"What a priceless thing for the poor converts of a savage country!" he -exclaimed, wiping his glasses, which were clouded by his strong feeling. -"All these poor Catholics who have been so long without instruction have -at least the reassurance of that visitation. It is a household word with -them that their Blessed Mother revealed Herself in their own country, to -a poor convert. Doctrine is well enough for the wise, Jean; but the -miracle is something we can hold in our hands and love." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant began pacing restlessly up and down as he spoke, and the -Bishop watched him, musing. It was just this in his friend that was dear -to him. "Where there is great love there are always miracles," he said -at length. "One might almost say that an apparition is human vision -corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I -see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to -me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming -suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made -finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what -is there about us always." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap02"></a>BOOK TWO -<br><br> -<i>MISSIONARY JOURNEYS</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE WHITE MULES</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N mid-March, Father Vaillant was on the -road, returning from a missionary journey to Albuquerque. He was to stop -at the <i>rancho</i> of a rich Mexican, Manuel Lujon, to marry his men -and maid servants who were living in concubinage, and to baptize the -children. There he would spend the night. To-morrow or the day after he -would go on to Santa Fé, halting by the way at the Indian pueblo of -Santo Domingo to hold service. There was a fine old mission church at -Santo Domingo, but the Indians were of a haughty and suspicious -disposition. He had said Mass there on his way to Albuquerque, nearly a -week ago. By dint of canvassing from house to house, and offering medals -and religious colour prints to all who came to church, he had got -together a considerable congregation. It was a large and prosperous -pueblo, set among clean sand-hills, with its rich irrigated farm lands -lying just below, in the valley of the Rio Grande. His congregation was -quiet, dignified, attentive. They sat on the earth floor, wrapped in -their best blankets, repose in every line of their strong, stubborn -backs. He harangued them in such Spanish as he could command, and they -listened with respect. But bring their children to be baptized, they -would not. The Spaniards had treated them very badly long ago, and they -had been meditating upon their grievance for many generations. Father -Vaillant had not baptized one infant there, but he meant to stop -to-morrow and try again. Then back to his Bishop, provided he could get -his horse up La Bajada Hill. -</p> -<p> -He had bought his horse from a Yankee trader and had been woefully -deceived. One week's journey of from twenty to thirty miles a day had -shown the beast up for a wind-broken wreck. Father Vaillant's mind was -full of material cares as he approached Manuel Lujon's place beyond -Bernalillo. The <i>rancho</i> was like a little town, with all its stables, -corrals, and stake fences. The <i>casa grande</i> was long and low, with -glass windows and bright blue doors, a <i>portale</i> running its full -length, supported by blue posts. Under this <i>portale</i> the adobe wall -was hung with bridles, saddles, great boots and spurs, guns and saddle -blankets, strings of red peppers, fox skins, and the skins of two great -rattlesnakes. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When Father Vaillant rode in through the gateway, children came running -from every direction, some with no clothing but a little shirt, and -women with no shawls over their black hair came running after the -children. They all disappeared when Manuel Lujon walked out of the great -house, hat in hand, smiling and hospitable. He was a man of thirty-five, -settled in figure and somewhat full under the chin. He greeted the -priest in the name of God and put out a hand to help him alight, but -Father Vaillant sprang quickly to the ground. -</p> -<p> -"God be with you, Manuel, and with your house. But where are those who -are to be married?" -</p> -<p> -"The men are all in the field, Padre. There is no hurry. A little wine, -a little bread, coffee, repose—and then the ceremonies." -</p> -<p> -"A little wine, very willingly, and bread, too. But not until afterward. -I meant to catch you all at dinner, but I am two hours late because my -horse is bad. Have someone bring in my saddle-bags, and I will put on my -vestments. Send out to the fields for your men, Señor Lujon. A man can -stop work to be married." -</p> -<p> -The swarthy host was dazed by this dispatch. "But one moment, Padre. -There are all the children to baptize; why not begin with them, if I -cannot persuade you to wash the dust from your sainted brow and repose a -little." -</p> -<p> -"Take me to a place where I can wash and change my clothes, and I will -be ready before you can get them here. No, I tell you, Lujon, the -marriages first, the baptisms afterward; that order is but Christian. I -will baptize the children to-morrow morning, and their parents will at -least have been married over night." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph was conducted to his chamber, and the older boys were sent -running off across the fields to fetch the men. Lujon and his two daughters -began constructing an altar at one end of the <i>sala</i>. Two old -women came to scrub the floor, and another brought chairs and stools. -</p> -<p> -"My God, but he is ugly, the Padre!" whispered one of these to the -others. "He must be very holy. And did you see the great wart he has on -his chin? My grandmother could take that away for him if she were alive, -poor soul! Somebody ought to tell him about the holy mud at Chimayo. -That mud might dry it up. But there is nobody left now who can take -warts away." -</p> -<p> -"No, the times are not so good any more," the other agreed. "And I doubt -if all this marrying will make them any better. Of what use is it to -marry people after they have lived together and had children? and the -man is maybe thinking about another woman, like Pablo. I saw him coming -out of the brush with that oldest girl of Trinidad's, only Sunday -night." -</p> -<p> -The reappearance of the priest upon the scene cut short further scandal. -He knelt down before the improvised altar and began his private -devotions. The women tiptoed away. Señor Lujon himself went out toward -the servants' quarters to hurry the candidates for the marriage -sacrament. The women were giggling and snatching up their best shawls. -Some of the men had even washed their hands. The household crowded into -the <i>sala</i>, and Father Vaillant married couples with great dispatch. -</p> -<p> -"To-morrow morning, the baptisms," he announced. "And the mothers see to -it that the children are clean, and that there are sponsors for all." -</p> -<p> -After he had resumed his travelling-clothes, Father Joseph asked his -host at what hour he dined, remarking that he had been fasting since an -early breakfast. -</p> -<p> -"We eat when it is ready—a little after sunset, usually. I have had a -young lamb killed for your Reverence." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph kindled with interest. "Ah, and how will it be cooked?" -</p> -<p> -Señor Lujon shrugged. "Cooked? Why, they put it in a pot with chili, -and some onions, I suppose." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, that is the point. I have had too much stewed mutton. Will you -permit me to go into the kitchen and cook my portion in my own way?" -</p> -<p> -Lujon waved his hand. "My house is yours, Padre. Into the kitchen I -never go—too many women. But there it is, and the woman in charge is -named Rosa." -</p> -<p> -When the Father entered the kitchen he found a crowd of women discussing -the marriages. They quickly dispersed, leaving old Rosa by her -fire-place, where hung a kettle from which issued the savour of cooking -mutton fat, all too familiar to Father Joseph. He found a half sheep -hanging outside the door, covered with a bloody sack, and asked Rosa to -heat the oven for him, announcing that he meant to roast the hind leg. -</p> -<p> -"But Padre, I baked before the marriages. The oven is almost cold. It -will take an hour to heat it, and it is only two hours till supper." -</p> -<p> -"Very well. I can cook my roast in an hour." -</p> -<p> -"Cook a roast in an hour!" cried the old woman. "Mother of God, Padre, -the blood will not be dried in it!" -</p> -<p> -"Not if I can help it!" said Father Joseph fiercely. "Now hurry with the -fire, my good woman." -</p> -<p> -When the Padre carved his roast at the supper-table, the serving-girls -stood behind his chair and looked with horror at the delicate stream of -pink juice that followed the knife. Manuel Lujon took a slice for -politeness, but he did not eat it. Father Vaillant had his <i>gigot</i> to -himself. -</p> -<p> -All the men and boys sat down at the long table with the host, the women -and children would eat later. Father Joseph and Lujon, at one end, had a -bottle of white Bordeaux between them. It had been brought from Mexico -City on mule-back, Lujon said. They were discussing the road back to -Santa Fé, and when the missionary remarked that he would stop at Santo -Domingo, the host asked him why he did not get a horse there. "I am -afraid you will hardly get back to Santa Fé on your own. The pueblo is -famous for breeding good horses. You might make a trade." -</p> -<p> -"No," said Father Vaillant. "Those Indians are of a sullen disposition. -If I were to have dealings with them, they would suspect my motives. If -we are to save their souls, we must make it clear that we want no profit -for ourselves, as I told Father Gallegos in Albuquerque." -</p> -<p> -Manuel Lujon laughed and glanced down the table at his men, who were all -showing their white teeth. "You said that to the Padre at Albuquerque? -You have courage. He is a rich man, Padre Gallegos. All the same, I -respect him. I have played poker with him. He is a great gambler and -takes his losses like a man. He stops at nothing, plays like an -American." -</p> -<p> -"And I," retorted Father Joseph, "I have not much respect for a priest -who either plays cards or manages to get rich." -</p> -<p> -"Then you do not play?" asked Lujon. "I am disappointed. I had hoped we -could have a game after supper. The evenings are dull enough here. You -do not even play dominoes?" -</p> -<p> -"Ah, that is another matter!" Father Joseph declared. "A game of -dominoes, there by the fire, with coffee, or some of that excellent -grape brandy you allowed me to taste, that I would find refreshing. And -tell me, Manuelito, where do you get that brandy? It is like a French -liqueur." -</p> -<p> -"It is well seasoned. It was made at Bernalillo in my grandfather's -time. They make it there still, but it is not so good now." -</p> -<p> -The next morning, after coffee, while the children were being got ready -for baptism, the host took Father Vaillant through his corrals and -stables to show him his stock. He exhibited with peculiar pride two -cream-coloured mules, stalled side by side. With his own hand he led -them out of the stable, in order to display to advantage their handsome -coats,—not bluish white, as with white horses, but a rich, deep -ivory, that in shadow changed to fawn-colour. Their tails were clipped -at the end into the shape of bells. -</p> -<p> -"Their names," said Lujon, "are Contento and Angelica, and they are as -good as their names. It seems that God has given them intelligence. When -I talk to them, they look up at me like Christians; they are very -companionable. They are always ridden together and have a great -affection for each other." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph took one by the halter and led it about. "Ah, but they are -rare creatures! I have never seen a mule or horse coloured like a young -fawn before." To his host's astonishment, the wiry little priest sprang -upon Contento's back with the agility of a grasshopper. The mule, too, -was astonished. He shook himself violently, bolted toward the gate of -the barnyard, and at the gate stopped suddenly. Since this did not throw -his rider, he seemed satisfied, trotted back, and stood placidly beside -Angelica. -</p> -<p> -"But you are a <i>caballero</i>, Father Vaillant!" Lujon exclaimed. "I -doubt if Father Gallegos would have kept his seat—though he is -something of a hunter." -</p> -<p> -"The saddle is to be my home in your country, Lujon. What an easy gait -this mule has, and what a narrow back! I notice that especially. For a -man with short legs, like me, it is a punishment to ride eight hours a -day on a wide horse. And this I must do day after day. From here I go to -Santa Fé, and, after a day in conference with the Bishop, I start for -Mora." -</p> -<p> -"For Mora?" exclaimed Lujon. "Yes, that is far, and the roads are very -bad. On your mare you will never do it. She will drop dead under you." -While he talked, the Father remained upon the mule's back, stroking him -with his hand. -</p> -<p> -"Well, I have no other. God grant that she does not drop somewhere far -from food and water. I can carry very little with me except my vestments -and the sacred vessels." -</p> -<p> -The Mexican had been growing more and more thoughtful, as if he were -considering something profound and not altogether cheerful. Suddenly his -brow cleared, and he turned to the priest with a radiant smile, quite -boyish in its simplicity. "Father Vaillant," he burst out in a slightly -oratorical manner, "you have made my house right with Heaven, and you -charge me very little. I will do something very nice for you; I will -give you Contento for a present, and I hope to be particularly -remembered in your prayers." -</p> -<p> -Springing to the ground, Father Vaillant threw his arms about his host. -"Manuelito!" he cried, "for this darling mule I think I could almost -pray you into Heaven!" -</p> -<p> -The Mexican laughed, too, and warmly returned the embrace. Arm-in-arm -they went in to begin the baptisms. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The next morning, when Lujon went to call Father Vaillant for breakfast, -he found him in the barnyard, leading the two mules about and smoothing -their fawn-coloured flanks, but his face was not the cheerful -countenance of yesterday. -</p> -<p> -"Manuel," he said at once, "I cannot accept your present. I have thought -upon it over night, and I see that I cannot. The Bishop works as hard as -I do, and his horse is little better than mine. You know he lost -everything on his way out here, in a shipwreck at Galveston,—among -the rest a fine wagon he had had built for travel on these plains. I could -not go about on a mule like this when my Bishop rides a common hack. It -would be inappropriate. I must ride away on my old mare." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Padre?" Manuel looked troubled and somewhat aggrieved. Why should -the Padre spoil everything? It had all been very pleasant yesterday, and -he had felt like a prince of generosity. "I doubt if she will make La -Bajada Hill," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Look my horses over and -take the one that suits you. They are all better than yours." -</p> -<p> -"No, no," said Father Vaillant decidedly. "Having seen these mules, I -want nothing else. They are the colour of pearls, really! I will raise -the price of marriages until I can buy this pair from you. A missionary -must depend upon his mount for companionship in his lonely life. I want -a mule that can look at me like a Christian, as you said of these." -</p> -<p> -Señor Lujon sighed and looked about his barnyard as if he were trying -to find some escape from this situation. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph turned to him with vehemence. "If I were a rich -<i>ranchero</i>, like you, Manuel, I would do a splendid thing; I would -furnish the two mounts that are to carry the word of God about this -heathen country, and then I would say to myself: <i>There go my Bishop and -my Vicario, on my beautiful cream-coloured mules</i>." -</p> -<p> -"So be it, Padre," said Lujon with a mournful smile. "But I ought to get -a good many prayers. On my whole estate there is nothing I prize like -those two. True, they might pine if they were parted for long. They have -never been separated, and they have a great affection for each other. -Mules, as you know, have strong affections. It is hard for me to give -them up." -</p> -<p> -"You will be all the happier for that, Manuelito," Father Joseph cried -heartily. "Every time you think of these mules, you will feel pride in -your good deed." -</p> -<p> -Soon after breakfast Father Vaillant departed, riding Contento, with -Angelica trotting submissively behind, and from his gate Señor Lujon -watched them disconsolately until they disappeared. He felt he had been -worried out of his mules, and yet he bore no resentment. He did not -doubt Father Joseph's devotedness, nor his singleness of purpose. After -all, a Bishop was a Bishop, and a Vicar was a Vicar, and it was not to -their discredit that they worked like a pair of common parish priests. -He believed he would be proud of the fact that they rode Contento and -Angelica. Father Vaillant had forced his hand, but he was rather glad of -it. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE LONELY ROAD TO MORA</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Bishop and his Vicar were riding -through the rain in the Truchas mountains. The heavy, lead-coloured -drops were driven slantingly through the air by an icy wind from the -peak. These raindrops, Father Latour kept thinking, were the shape of -tadpoles, and they broke against his nose and cheeks, exploding with a -splash, as if they were hollow and full of air. The priests were riding -across high mountain meadows, which in a few weeks would be green, -though just now they were slate-coloured. On every side lay ridges -covered with blue-green fir trees; above them rose the horny backbones -of mountains. The sky was very low; purplish lead-coloured clouds let -down curtains of mist into the valleys between the pine ridges. There -was not a glimmer of white light in the dark vapours working -overhead—rather, they took on the cold green of the evergreens. -Even the white mules, their coats wet and matted into tufts, had turned -a slaty hue, and the faces of the two priests were purple and spotted in -that singular light. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour rode first, sitting straight upon his mule, with his chin -lowered just enough to keep the drive of rain out of his eyes. Father -Vaillant followed, unable to see much,—in weather like this his -glasses were of no use, and he had taken them off. He crouched down in -the saddle, his shoulders well over Contento's neck. Father Joseph's -sister, Philomène, who was Mother Superior of a convent in her native -town in the Puy-de-Dôm, often tried to picture her brother and Bishop -Latour on these long missionary journeys of which he wrote her; she -imagined the scene and saw the two priests moving through it in their -cassocks, bare-headed, like the pictures of St. Francis Xavier with -which she was familiar. The reality was less picturesque,—but for -all that, no one could have mistaken these two men for hunters or -traders. They wore clerical collars about their necks instead of -neckerchiefs, and on the breast of his buckskin jacket the Bishop's -silver cross hung by a silver chain. -</p> -<p> -They were on their way to Mora, the third day out, and they did not know -just how far they had still to go. Since morning they had not met a -traveller or seen a human habitation. They believed they were on the -right trail, for they had seen no other. The first night of their -journey they had spent at Santa Cruz, lying in the warm, wide valley of -the Rio Grande, where the fields and gardens were already softly -coloured with early spring. But since they had left the Española -country behind them, they had contended first with wind and sand-storms, -and now with cold. The Bishop was going to Mora to assist the Padre -there in disposing of a crowd of refugees who filled his house. A new -settlement in the Conejos valley had lately been raided by Indians; many -of the inhabitants were killed, and the survivors, who were originally -from Mora, had managed to get back there, utterly destitute. -</p> -<p> -Before the travellers had crossed the mountain meadows, the rain turned -to sleet. Their wet buckskins quickly froze, and the rattle of icy -flakes struck them and bounded off. The prospect of a night in the open -was not cheering. It was too wet to kindle a fire, their blankets would -become soaked on the ground. As they were descending the mountain on the -Mora side, the gray daylight seemed already beginning to fail, though it -was only four o'clock. Father Latour turned in his saddle and spoke over -his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"The mules are certainly very tired, Joseph. They ought to be fed." -</p> -<p> -"Push on," said Father Vaillant. "We will come to shelter of some kind -before night sets in." The Vicar had been praying steadfastly while they -crossed the meadows, and he felt confident that St. Joseph would not -turn a deaf ear. Before the hour was done they did indeed come upon a -wretched adobe house, so poor and mean that they might not have seen it -had it not lain close beside the trail, on the edge of a steep ravine. -The stable looked more habitable than the house, and the priests thought -perhaps they could spend the night in it. -</p> -<p> -As they rode up to the door, a man came out, bare-headed, and they saw -to their surprise that he was not a Mexican, but an American, of a very -unprepossessing type. He spoke to them in some drawling dialect they -could scarcely understand and asked if they wanted to stay the night. -During the few words they exchanged with him Father Latour felt a -growing reluctance to remain even for a few hours under the roof of this -ugly, evil-looking fellow. He was tall, gaunt and ill-formed, with a -snake-like neck, terminating in a small, bony head. Under his -close-clipped hair this repellent head showed a number of thick ridges, -as if the skull joinings were overgrown by layers of superfluous bone. -With its small, rudimentary ears, this head had a positively malignant -look. The man seemed not more than half human, but he was the only -householder on the lonely road to Mora. -</p> -<p> -The priests dismounted and asked him whether he could put their mules -under shelter and give them grain feed. -</p> -<p> -"As soon as I git my coat on I will. You kin come in." -</p> -<p> -They followed him into a room where a piñon fire blazed in the corner, -and went toward it to warm their stiffened hands. Their host made an -angry, snarling sound in the direction of the partition, and a woman -came out of the next room. She was a Mexican. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour and Father Vaillant addressed her courteously in Spanish, -greeting her in the name of the Holy Mother, as was customary. She did -not open her lips, but stared at them blankly for a moment, then dropped -her eyes and cowered as if she were terribly frightened. The priests -looked at each other; it struck them both that this man had been abusing -her in some way. Suddenly he turned on her. -</p> -<p> -"Clear off them cheers fur the strangers. They won't eat ye, if they air -priests." -</p> -<p> -She began distractedly snatching rags and wet socks and dirty clothes -from the chairs. Her hands were shaking so that she dropped things. She -was not old, she might have been very young, but she was probably -half-witted. There was nothing in her face but blankness and fear. -</p> -<p> -Her husband put on his coat and boots, went to the door, and stopped -with his hand on the latch, throwing over his shoulder a crafty, hateful -glance at the bewildered woman. -</p> -<p> -"Here, you! Come right along, I'll need ye!" -</p> -<p> -She took her black shawl from a peg and followed him. Just at the door -she turned and caught the eyes of the visitors, who were looking after -her in compassion and perplexity. Instantly that stupid face became -intense, prophetic, full of awful meaning. With her finger she pointed -them away, away!—two quick thrusts into the air. Then, with a look of -horror beyond anything language could convey, she threw back her head -and drew the edge of her palm quickly across her distended throat—and -vanished. The doorway was empty; the two priests stood staring at it, -speechless. That flash of electric passion had been so swift, the -warning it communicated so vivid and definite, that they were struck -dumb. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph was the first to find his tongue. "There is no doubt of -her meaning. Your pistol is loaded, Jean?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but I neglected to keep it dry. No matter." -</p> -<p> -They hurried out of the house. It was still light enough to see the -stable through the grey drive of rain, and they went toward it. -</p> -<p> -"Señor American," the Bishop called, "will you be good enough to bring -out our mules?" -</p> -<p> -The man came out of the stable. "What do you want?" -</p> -<p> -"Our mules. We have changed our mind. We will push on to Mora. And here -is a dollar for your trouble." -</p> -<p> -The man took a threatening attitude. As he looked from one to the other -his head played from side to side exactly like a snake's. "What's the -matter? My house ain't good enough for ye?" -</p> -<p> -"No explanation is necessary. Go into the barn and get the mules, Father -Joseph." -</p> -<p> -"You dare go into my stable, you——priest!" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop drew his pistol. "No profanity, Señor. We want nothing from -you but to get away from your uncivil tongue. Stand where you are." -</p> -<p> -The man was unarmed. Father Joseph came out with the mules, which had -not been unsaddled. The poor things were each munching a mouthful, but -they needed no urging to be gone; they did not like this place. The -moment they felt their riders on their backs they trotted quickly along -the road, which dropped immediately into the arroyo. While they were -descending, Father Joseph remarked that the man would certainly have a -gun in the house, and that he had no wish to be shot in the back. -</p> -<p> -"Nor I. But it is growing too dark for that, unless he should follow us -on horseback," said the Bishop. "Were there horses in the stable?" -</p> -<p> -"Only a burro." Father Vaillant was relying upon the protection of St. -Joseph, whose office he had fervently said that morning. The warning -given them by that poor woman, with such scant opportunity, seemed -evidence that some protecting power was mindful of them. -</p> -<p> -By the time they had ascended the far side of the arroyo, night had -closed down and the rain was pouring harder than ever. -</p> -<p> -"I am by no means sure that we can keep in the road," said the Bishop. -"But at least I am sure we are not being followed. We must trust to -these intelligent beasts. Poor woman! He will suspect her and abuse her, -I am afraid." He kept seeing her in the darkness as he rode on, her face -in the fire-light, and her terrible pantomime. -</p> -<p> -They reached the town of Mora a little after midnight. The Padre's house -was full of refugees, and two of them were put out of a bed in order -that the Bishop and his Vicar could get into it. -</p> -<p> -In the morning a boy came from the stable and reported that he had found -a crazy woman lying in the straw, and that she begged to see the two -Padres who owned the white mules. She was brought in, her clothing cut -to rags, her legs and face and even her hair so plastered with mud that -the priests could scarcely recognize the woman who had saved their lives -the night before. -</p> -<p> -She said she had never gone back to the house at all. When the two -priests rode away her husband had run to the house to get his gun, and -she had plunged down a wash-out behind the stable into the arroyo, and -had been on the way to Mora all night. She had supposed he would -overtake her and kill her, but he had not. She reached the settlement -before day-break, and crept into the stable to warm herself among the -animals and wait until the household was awake. Kneeling before the -Bishop she began to relate such horrible things that he stopped her and -turned to the native priest. -</p> -<p> -"This is a case for the civil authorities. Is there a magistrate here?" -</p> -<p> -There was no magistrate, but there was a retired fur trapper who acted -as notary and could take evidence. He was sent for, and in the interval -Father Latour instructed the refugee women from Conejos to bathe this -poor creature and put decent clothes on her, and to care for the cuts -and scratches on her legs. -</p> -<p> -An hour later the woman, whose name was Magdalena, calmed by food and -kindness, was ready to tell her story. The notary had brought along his -friend, St. Vrain, a Canadian trapper who understood Spanish better than -he. The woman was known to St. Vrain, moreover, who confirmed her -statement that she was born Magdalena Valdez, at Los Ranchos de Taos, -and that she was twenty-four years old. Her husband, Buck Scales, had -drifted into Taos with a party of hunters from somewhere in Wyoming. All -white men knew him for a dog and a degenerate—but to Mexican girls, -marriage with an American meant coming up in the world. She had married -him six years ago, and had been living with him ever since in that -wretched house on the Mora trail. During that time he had robbed and -murdered four travellers who had stopped there for the night. They were -all strangers, not known in the country. She had forgot their names, but -one was a German boy who spoke very little Spanish and little English; -a nice boy with blue eyes, and she had grieved for him more than for the -others. They were all buried in the sandy soil behind the stable. She -was always afraid their bodies might wash out in a storm. Their horses -Buck had ridden off by night and sold to Indians somewhere in the north. -Magdalena had borne three children since her marriage, and her husband -had killed each of them a few days after birth, by ways so horrible that -she could not relate it. After he killed the first baby, she ran away -from him, back to her parents at Ranchos. He came after her and made her -go home with him by threatening harm to the old people. She was afraid -to go anywhere for help, but twice before she had managed to warn -travellers away, when her husband happened to be out of the house. This -time she had found courage because, when she looked into the faces of -these two Padres, she knew they were good men, and she thought if she -ran after them they could save her. She could not bear any more killing. -She asked nothing better than to die herself, if only she could hide -near a church and a priest for a while, to make her soul right with God. -</p> -<p> -St. Vrain and his friend got together a search-party at once. They rode -out to Scales's place and found the remains of four men buried under the -corral behind the stable, as the woman had said. Scales himself they -captured on the road from Taos, where he had gone to look for his wife. -They brought him back to Mora, but St. Vrain rode on to Taos to fetch a -magistrate. -</p> -<p> -There was no <i>calabozo</i> in Mora, so Scales was put into an empty -stable, under guard. This stable was soon surrounded by a crowd of -people, who loitered to hear the blood-curdling threats the prisoner -shouted against his wife. Magdalena was kept in the Padre's house, where -she lay on a mat in the corner, begging Father Latour to take her back -to Santa Fé, so that her husband could not get at her. Though Scales -was bound, the Bishop felt alarmed for her safety. He and the American -notary, who had a pistol of the new revolver model, sat in the -<i>sala</i> and kept watch over her all night. -</p> -<p> -In the morning the magistrate and his party arrived from Taos. The -notary told him the facts of the case in the plaza, where everyone could -hear. The Bishop inquired whether there was any place for Magdalena in -Taos, as she could not stay on here in such a state of terror. -</p> -<p> -A man dressed in buckskin hunting-clothes stepped out of the crowd and -asked to see Magdalena. Father Latour conducted him into the room where -she lay on her mat. The stranger went up to her, removing his hat. He -bent down and put his hand on her shoulder. Though he was clearly an -American, he spoke Spanish in the native manner. -</p> -<p> -"Magdalena, don't you remember me?" -</p> -<p> -She looked up at him as out of a dark well; something became alive in -her deep, haunted eyes. She caught with both hands at his fringed -buckskin knees. -</p> -<p> -"Christobal!" she wailed. "Oh, Christobal!" -</p> -<p> -"I'll take you home with me, Magdalena, and you can stay with my wife. -You wouldn't be afraid in my house, would you?" -</p> -<p> -"No, no, Christobal, I would not be afraid with you. I am not a wicked -woman." -</p> -<p> -He smoothed her hair. "You're a good girl, Magdalena—always were. It -will be all right. Just leave things to me." -</p> -<p> -Then he turned to the Bishop. "Señor Vicario, she can come to me. I -live near Taos. My wife is a native woman, and she'll be good to her. -That varmint won't come about my place, even if he breaks jail. He knows -me. My name is Carson." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had looked forward to meeting the scout. He had supposed -him to be a very large man, of powerful body and commanding presence. -This Carson was not so tall as the Bishop himself, was very slight in -frame, modest in manner, and he spoke English with a soft Southern -drawl. His face was both thoughtful and alert; anxiety had drawn a -permanent ridge between his blue eyes. Under his blond moustache his -mouth had a singular refinement. The lips were full and delicately -modelled. There was something curiously unconscious about his mouth, -reflective, a little melancholy,—and something that suggested a -capacity for tenderness. The Bishop felt a quick glow of pleasure in -looking at the man. As he stood there in his buckskin clothes one felt -in him standards, loyalties, a code which is not easily put into words -but which is instantly felt when two men who live by it come together by -chance. He took the scout's hand. "I have long wanted to meet Kit -Carson," he said, "even before I came to New Mexico. I have been hoping -you would pay me a visit at Santa Fé." -</p> -<p> -The other smiled. "I'm right shy, sir, and I'm always afraid of being -disappointed. But I guess it will be all right from now on." -</p> -<p> -This was the beginning of a long friendship. -</p> -<p> -On their ride back to Carson's ranch, Magdalena was put in Father -Vaillant's care, and the Bishop and the scout rode together. Carson said -he had become a Catholic merely as a matter of form, as Americans -usually did when they married a Mexican girl. His wife was a good woman -and very devout; but religion had seemed to him pretty much a woman's -affair until his last trip to California. He had been sick out there, -and the Fathers at one of the missions took care of him. "I began to see -things different, and thought I might some day be a Catholic in earnest. -I was brought up to think priests were rascals, and that the nuns were -bad women,—all the stuff they talk back in Missouri. A good many of -the native priests here bear out that story. Our Padre Martinez at Taos is -an old scapegrace, if ever there was one; he's got children and -grandchildren in almost every settlement around here. And Padre Lucero -at Arroyo Hondo is a miser, takes everything a poor man's got to give -him a Christian burial." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop discussed the needs of his people at length with Carson. He -felt great confidence in his judgment. The two men were about the same -age, both a little over forty, and both had been sobered and sharpened -by wide experience. Carson had been guide in world-renowned -explorations, but he was still almost as poor as in the days when he was -a beaver trapper. He lived in a little adobe house with his Mexican -wife. The great country of desert and mountain ranges between Santa Fé -and the Pacific coast was not yet mapped or charted; the most reliable -map of it was in Kit Carson's brain. This Missourian, whose eye was so -quick to read a landscape or a human face, could not read a printed -page. He could at that time barely write his own name. Yet one felt in -him a quick and discriminating intelligence. That he was illiterate was -an accident; he had got ahead of books, gone where the printing-press -could not follow him. Out of the hardships of his boyhood—from -fourteen to twenty picking up a bare living as cook or mule-driver for -wagon trains, often in the service of brutal and desperate -characters—he had preserved a clean sense of honour and a -compassionate heart. In talking to the Bishop of poor Magdalena he said -sadly: "I used to see her in Taos when she was such a pretty girl. Ain't -it a pity?" -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The degenerate murderer, Buck Scales, was hanged after a short trial. -Early in April the Bishop left Santa Fé on horseback and rode to St. -Louis, on his way to attend the Provincial Council at Baltimore. When he -returned in September, he brought back with him five courageous nuns, -Sisters of Loretto, to found a school for girls in letterless Santa Fé. -He sent at once for Magdalena and took her into the service of the -Sisters. She became housekeeper and manager of the Sisters' kitchen. She -was devoted to the nuns, and so happy in the service of the Church that -when the Bishop visited the school he used to enter by the -kitchen-garden in order to see her serene and handsome face. For she -became beautiful, as Carson said she had been as a girl. After the -blight of her horrible youth was over, she seemed to bloom again in the -household of God. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap03"></a>BOOK THREE -<br><br> -<i>THE MASS AT ÁCOMA</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE WOODEN PARROT</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">D</span>URING the first year after his arrival in -Santa Fé, the Bishop was actually in his diocese only about four -months. Six months of that first year were consumed in attending the -Plenary Council at Baltimore, to which he had been summoned. He went on -horseback over the Santa Fé trail to St. Louis, nearly a thousand -miles, then by steamboat to Pittsburgh, across the mountains to -Cumberland, and on to Washington by the new railroad. The return journey -was even slower, as he had with him the five nuns who came to found the -school of Our Lady of Light. He reached Santa Fé late in September. -</p> -<p> -So far, Bishop Latour had been mainly employed on business that took him -far away from his Vicarate. His great diocese was still an unimaginable -mystery to him. He was eager to be abroad in it, to know his people; to -escape for a little from the cares of building and founding, and to go -westward among the old isolated Indian missions; Santo Domingo, breeder -of horses; Isleta, whitened with gypsum; Laguna, of wide pastures; and -finally, cloud-set Ácoma. -</p> -<p> -In the golden October weather the Bishop, with his blankets and -coffee-pot, attended by Jacinto, a young Indian from the Pecos pueblo, -whom he employed as guide, set off to visit the Indian missions in the -west. He spent a night and a day at Albuquerque, with the genial and -popular Padre Gallegos. After Santa Fé, Albuquerque was the most -important parish in the diocese; the priest belonged to an influential -Mexican family, and he and the <i>rancheros</i> had run their church to -suit themselves, making a very gay affair of it. Though Padre Gallegos was -ten years older than the Bishop, he would still dance the fandango five -nights running, as if he could never have enough of it. He had many -friends in the American colony, with whom he played poker and went -hunting, when he was not dancing with the Mexicans. His cellar was well -stocked with wines from El Paso del Norte, whisky from Taos, and grape -brandy from Bernalillo. He was genuinely hospitable, and the gambler -down on his luck, the soldier sobering up, were always welcome at his -table. The Padre was adored by a rich Mexican widow, who was hostess at -his supper parties, engaged his servants for him, made lace for the -altar and napery for his table. Every Sunday her carriage, the only -closed one in Albuquerque, waited in the plaza after Mass, and when the -priest had put off his vestments, he came out and was driven away to the -lady's hacienda for dinner. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop and Father Vaillant had thoroughly examined the case of -Father Gallegos, and meant to end this scandalous state of things well -before Christmas. But on this visit Father Latour exhibited neither -astonishment nor displeasure at anything, and Padre Gallegos was cordial -and most ceremoniously polite. When the Bishop permitted himself to -express some surprise that there was not a confirmation class awaiting -him, the Padre explained smoothly that it was his custom to confirm -infants at their baptism. -</p> -<p> -"It is all the same in a Christian community like ours. We know they -will receive religious instruction as they grow up, so we make good -Catholics of them in the beginning. Why not?" -</p> -<p> -The Padre was uneasy lest the Bishop should require his attendance on -this trip out among the missions. He had no liking for scanty food and a -bed on the rocks. So, though he had been dancing only a few nights -before, he received his Superior with one foot bandaged up in an Indian -moccasin, and complained of a severe attack of gout. Asked when he had -last celebrated Mass at Ácoma, he made no direct reply. It used to be -his custom, he said, to go there in Passion Week, but the Ácoma Indians -were unreclaimed heathen at heart, and had no wish to be bothered with -the Mass. The last time he went out there, he was unable to get into the -church at all. The Indians pretended they had not the key; that the -Governor had it, and that he had gone on "Indian business" up into the -Cebolleta mountains. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop did not wish Padre Gallegos's company upon his journey, was -very glad not to have the embarrassment of refusing it, and he rode away -from Albuquerque after polite farewells. Yet, he reflected, there was -something very engaging about Gallegos as a man. As a priest, he was -impossible; he was too self-satisfied and popular ever to change his -ways, and he certainly could not change his face. He did not look quite -like a professional gambler, but something smooth and twinkling in his -countenance suggested an underhanded mode of life. There was but one -course: to suspend the man from the exercise of all priestly functions, -and bid the smaller native priests take warning. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant had told the Bishop that he must by all means stop a night -at Isleta, as he would like the priest there—Padre Jesus de Baca, -an old white-haired man, almost blind, who had been at Isleta many years -and had won the confidence and affection of his Indians. -</p> -<p> -When he approached this pueblo of Isleta, gleaming white across a low -plain of grey sand, Father Latour's spirits rose. It was beautiful, that -warm, rich whiteness of the church and the clustered town, shaded by a -few bright acacia trees, with their intense blue-green like the colour -of old paper window-blinds. That tree always awakened pleasant memories, -recalling a garden in the south of France where he used to visit young -cousins. As he rode up to the church, the old priest came out to meet -him, and after his salutation stood looking at Father Latour, shading -his failing eyes with his hand. -</p> -<p> -"And can this be my Bishop? So young a man?" he exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -They went into the priest's house by way of a garden, walled in behind -the church. This enclosure was full of domesticated cactus plants, of -many varieties and great size (it seemed the Padre loved them), and -among these hung wicker cages made of willow twigs, full of parrots. -There were even parrots hopping about the sanded paths,—with one wing -clipped to keep them at home. Father Jesus explained that parrot -feathers were much prized by his Indians as ornaments for their -ceremonial robes, and he had long ago found he could please his -parishioners by raising the birds. -</p> -<p> -The priest's house was white within and without, like all the Isleta -houses, and was almost as bare as an Indian dwelling. The old man was -poor, and too soft-hearted to press the pueblo people for pesos. An -Indian girl cooked his beans and cornmeal mush for him, he required -little else. The girl was not very skilful, he said, but she was clean -about her cooking. When the Bishop remarked that everything in this -pueblo, even the streets, seemed clean, the Padre told him that near -Isleta there was a hill of some white mineral, which the Indians ground -up and used as whitewash. They had done this from time immemorial, and -the village had always been noted for its whiteness. A little talk with -Father Jesus revealed that he was simple almost to childishness, and -very superstitious. But there was a quality of golden goodness about -him. His right eye was overgrown by a cataract, and he kept his head -tilted as if he were trying to see around it. All his movements were to -the left, as if he were reaching or walking about some obstacle in his -path. -</p> -<p> -After coming to the house by way of a garden full of parrots, Father -Latour was amused to find that the sole ornament in the Padre's poor, bare -little <i>sala</i> was a wooden parrot, perched in a hoop and hung from -one of the roof-logs. While Father Jesus was instructing his Indian girl -in the kitchen, the Bishop took this carving down from its perch to -examine it. It was cut from a single stick of wood, exactly the size of -a living bird, body and tail rigid and straight, the head a little -turned. The wings and tail and neck feathers were just indicated by the -tool, and thinly painted. He was surprised to feel how light it was; the -surface had the whiteness and velvety smoothness of very old wood. -Though scarcely carved at all, merely smoothed into shape, it was -strangely lifelike; a wooden pattern of parrots, as it were. -</p> -<p> -The Padre smiled when he found the Bishop with the bird in his hand. -</p> -<p> -"I see you have found my treasure! That, your Grace, is probably the -oldest thing in the pueblo—older than the pueblo itself." -</p> -<p> -The parrot, Father Jesus said, had always been the bird of wonder and -desire to the pueblo Indians. In ancient times its feathers were more -valued than wampum and turquoises. Even before the Spaniards came, the -pueblos of northern New Mexico used to send explorers along the -dangerous and difficult trade routes down into tropical Mexico to bring -back upon their bodies a cargo of parrot feathers. To purchase these the -trader carried pouches full of turquoises from the Cerrillos hills near -Santa Fé. When, very rarely, a trader succeeded in bringing back a live -bird to his people, it was paid divine honours, and its death threw the -whole village into the deepest gloom. Even the bones were piously -preserved. There was in Isleta a parrot skull of great antiquity. His -wooden bird he had bought from an old man who was much indebted to him, -and who was about to die without descendants. Father Jesus had had his -eye upon the bird for years. The Indian told him that his ancestors, -generations ago, had brought it with them from the mother pueblo. The -priest fondly believed that it was a portrait, done from life, of one of -those rare birds that in ancient times were carried up alive, all the -long trail from the tropics. -</p> -<p> -Father Jesus gave a good report of the Indians at Laguna and Ácoma. He -used to go to those pueblos to hold services when he was younger, and -had always found them friendly. -</p> -<p> -"At Ácoma," he said, "you can see something very holy. They have there -a portrait of St. Joseph, sent to them by one of the Kings of Spain, -long ago, and it has worked many miracles. If the season is dry, the -Ácoma people take the picture down to their farms at Acomita, and it -never fails to produce rain. They have rain when none falls in all the -country, and they have crops when the Laguna Indians have none." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>JACINTO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>AKING leave of Isleta and its priest early -in the morning, Father Latour and his guide rode all day through the dry -desert plain west of Albuquerque. It was like a country of dry ashes; no -juniper, no rabbit brush, nothing but thickets of withered, dead-looking -cactus, and patches of wild pumpkin—the only vegetation that had -any vitality. It is a vine, remarkable for its tendency, not to spread -and ramble, but to mass and mount. Its long, sharp, arrow-shaped leaves, -frosted over with prickly silver, are thrust upward and crowded -together; the whole rigid, up-thrust matted clump looks less like a -plant than like a great colony of grey-green lizards, moving and -suddenly arrested by fear. -</p> -<p> -As the morning wore on they had to make their way through a sand-storm -which quite obscured the sun. Jacinto knew the country well, having -crossed it often to go to the religious dances at Laguna, but he rode -with his head low and a purple handkerchief tied over his mouth. Coming -from a pueblo among woods and water, he had a poor opinion of this -plain. At noon he alighted and collected enough greasewood to boil the -Bishop's coffee. They knelt on either side of the fire, the sand curling -about them so that the bread became gritty as they ate it. -</p> -<p> -The sun set red in an atmosphere murky with sand. The travellers made a -dry camp and rolled themselves in their blankets. All night a cold wind -blew over them. Father Latour was so stiff that he arose long before -day-break. The dawn came at last, fair and clear, and they made an early -start. -</p> -<p> -About the middle of that afternoon Jacinto pointed out Laguna in the -distance, lying, apparently, in the midst of bright yellow waves of high -sand dunes—yellow as ochre. As they approached, Father Latour found -these were petrified sand dunes; long waves of soft, gritty yellow rock, -shining and bare except for a few lines of dark juniper that grew out of -the weather cracks,—little trees, and very, very old. At the foot of -this sweep of rock waves was the blue lake, a stone basin full of water, -from which the pueblo took its name. -</p> -<p> -The kindly Padre at Isleta had sent his cook's brother off on foot to -warn the Laguna people that the new High Priest was coming, and that he -was a good man and did not want money. They were prepared, accordingly; -the church was clean and the doors were open; a small white church, -painted above and about the altar with gods of wind and rain and -thunder, sun and moon, linked together in a geometrical design of -crimson and blue and dark green, so that the end of the church seemed to -be hung with tapestry. It recalled to Father Latour the interior of a -Persian chieftain's tent he had seen in a textile exhibit at Lyons. -Whether this decoration had been done by Spanish missionaries or by -Indian converts, he was unable to find out. -</p> -<p> -The Governor told him that his people would come to Mass in the morning, -and that there were a number of children to be baptized. He offered the -Bishop the sacristy for the night, but there was a damp, earthy smell -about that chamber, and Father Latour had already made up his mind that -he would like to sleep on the rock dunes, under the junipers. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto got firewood and good water from the Lagunas, and they made -their camp in a pleasant spot on the rocks north of the village. As the -sun dropped low, the light brought the white church and the yellow adobe -houses up into relief from the flat ledges. Behind their camp, not far -away, lay a group of great mesas. The Bishop asked Jacinto if he knew -the name of the one nearest them. -</p> -<p> -"No, I not know any name," he shook his head. "I know Indian name," he -added, as if, for once, he were thinking aloud. -</p> -<p> -"And what is the Indian name?" -</p> -<p> -"The Laguna Indians call Snow-Bird mountain." He spoke somewhat -unwillingly. -</p> -<p> -"That is very nice," said the Bishop musingly. "Yes, that is a pretty -name." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Indians have nice names too!" Jacinto replied quickly, with a curl -of the lip. Then, as if he felt he had taken out on the Bishop a -reproach not deserved, he said in a moment: "The Laguna people think it -very funny for a big priest to be a young man. The Governor say, how can -I call him Padre when he is younger than my sons?" -</p> -<p> -There was a note of pride in Jacinto's voice very flattering to the -Bishop. He had noticed how kind the Indian voice could be when it was -kind at all; a slight inflection made one feel that one had received a -great compliment. -</p> -<p> -"I am not very young in heart, Jacinto. How old are you, my boy?" -</p> -<p> -"Twenty-six." -</p> -<p> -"Have you a son?" -</p> -<p> -"One. Baby. Not very long born." -</p> -<p> -Jacinto usually dropped the article in speaking Spanish, just as he did -in speaking English, though the Bishop had noticed that when he did give -a noun its article, he used the right one. The customary omission, -therefore, seemed to be a matter of taste, not ignorance. In the Indian -conception of language, such attachments were superfluous and -unpleasing, perhaps. -</p> -<p> -They relapsed into the silence which was their usual form of -intercourse. The Bishop sat drinking his coffee slowly out of the tin -cup, keeping the pot near the embers. The sun had set now, the yellow -rocks were turning grey, down in the pueblo the light of the cook fires -made red patches of the glassless windows, and the smell of piñon smoke -came softly through the still air. The whole western sky was the colour -of golden ashes, with here and there a flush of red on the lip of a -little cloud. High above the horizon the evening-star flickered like a -lamp just lit, and close beside it was another star of constant light, -much smaller. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto threw away the end of his cornhusk cigarette and again spoke -without being addressed. -</p> -<p> -"The ev-en-ing-star," he said in English, slowly and somewhat -sententiously, then relapsed into Spanish. "You see the little star -beside, Padre? Indians call him the guide." -</p> -<p> -The two companions sat, each thinking his own thoughts as night closed -in about them; a blue night set with stars, the bulk of the solitary -mesas cutting into the firmament. The Bishop seldom questioned Jacinto -about his thoughts or beliefs. He didn't think it polite, and he -believed it to be useless. There was no way in which he could transfer -his own memories of European civilization into the Indian mind, and he -was quite willing to believe that behind Jacinto there was a long -tradition, a story of experience, which no language could translate to -him. A chill came with the darkness. Father Latour put on his old -fur-lined cloak, and Jacinto, loosening the blanket tied about his -loins, drew it up over his head and shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"Many stars," he said presently. "What you think about the stars, -Padre?" -</p> -<p> -"The wise men tell us they are worlds, like ours, Jacinto." -</p> -<p> -The end of the Indian's cigarette grew bright and then dull again before -he spoke. "I think not," he said in the tone of one who has considered a -proposition fairly and rejected it. "I think they are leaders—great -spirits." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps they are," said the Bishop with a sigh. "Whatever they are, -they are great. Let us say <i>Our Father</i>, and go to sleep, my boy." -</p> -<p> -Kneeling on either side of the embers they repeated the prayer together -and then rolled up in their blankets. The Bishop went to sleep thinking -with satisfaction that he was beginning to have some sort of human -companionship with his Indian boy. One called the young Indians "boys," -perhaps because there was something youthful and elastic in their -bodies. Certainly about their behaviour there was nothing boyish in the -American sense, nor even in the European sense. Jacinto was never, by -any chance, naïf; he was never taken by surprise. One felt that his -training, whatever it had been, had prepared him to meet any situation -which might confront him. He was as much at home in the Bishop's study as -in his own pueblo—and he was never too much at home anywhere. Father -Latour felt he had gone a good way toward gaining his guide's friendship, -though he did not know how. -</p> -<p> -The truth was, Jacinto liked the Bishop's way of meeting people; thought -he had the right tone with Padre Gallegos, the right tone with Padre -Jesus, and that he had good manners with the Indians. In his experience, -white people, when they addressed Indians, always put on a false face. -There were many kinds of false faces; Father Vaillant's, for example, -was kindly but too vehement. The Bishop put on none at all. He stood -straight and turned to the Governor of Laguna, and his face underwent no -change. Jacinto thought this remarkable. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE ROCK</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER early Mass the next morning Father -Latour and his guide rode off across the low plain that lies between -Laguna and Ácoma. In all his travels the Bishop had seen no country -like this. From the flat red sea of sand rose great rock mesas, -generally Gothic in outline, resembling vast cathedrals. They were not -crowded together in disorder, but placed in wide spaces, long vistas -between. This plain might once have been an enormous city, all the -smaller quarters destroyed by time, only the public buildings -left,—piles of architecture that were like mountains. The sandy -soil of the plain had a light sprinkling of junipers, and was splotched -with masses of blooming rabbit brush,—that olive-coloured plant -that grows in high waves like a tossing sea, at this season covered with -a thatch of bloom, yellow as gorse, or orange like marigolds. -</p> -<p> -This mesa plain had an appearance of great antiquity, and of -incompleteness; as if, with all the materials for world-making -assembled, the Creator had desisted, gone away and left everything on -the point of being brought together, on the eve of being arranged into -mountain, plain, plateau. The country was still waiting to be made into -a landscape. -</p> -<p> -Ever afterward the Bishop remembered his first ride to Ácoma as his -introduction to the mesa country. One thing which struck him at once was -that every mesa was duplicated by a cloud mesa, like a reflection, which -lay motionless above it or moved slowly up from behind it. These cloud -formations seemed to be always there, however hot and blue the sky. -Sometimes they were flat terraces, ledges of vapour; sometimes they were -dome-shaped, or fantastic, like the tops of silvery pagodas, rising one -above another, as if an oriental city lay directly behind the rock. The -great tables of granite set down in an empty plain were inconceivable -without their attendant clouds, which were a part of them, as the smoke -is part of the censer, or the foam of the wave. -</p> -<p> -Coming along the Santa Fé trail, in the vast plains of Kansas, Father -Latour had found the sky more a desert than the land; a hard, empty -blue, very monotonous to the eyes of a Frenchman. But west of the Pecos -all that changed; here there was always activity overhead, clouds -forming and moving all day long. Whether they were dark and full of -violence, or soft and white with luxurious idleness, they powerfully -affected the world beneath them. The desert, the mountains and mesas, -were continually re-formed and re-coloured by the cloud shadows. The -whole country seemed fluid to the eye under this constant change of -accent, this ever-varying distribution of light. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto interrupted these reflections by an exclamation. -</p> -<p> -"Ácoma!" He stopped his mule. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop, following with his eye the straight, pointing Indian hand, -saw, far away, two great mesas. They were almost square in shape, and at -this distance seemed close together, though they were really some miles -apart. -</p> -<p> -"The far one"—his guide still pointed. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop's eyes were not so sharp as Jacinto's, but now, looking down -upon the top of the farther mesa from the high land on which they halted, -he saw a flat white outline on the grey surface—a white square -made up of squares. That, his guide said, was the pueblo of Ácoma. -</p> -<p> -Riding on, they presently drew rein under the Enchanted Mesa, and -Jacinto told him that on this, too, there had once been a village, but -the stairway which had been the only access to it was broken off by a -great storm many centuries ago, and its people had perished up there -from hunger. -</p> -<p> -But how, the Bishop asked him, did men first think of living on the top -of naked rocks like these, hundreds of feet in the air, without soil or -water? -</p> -<p> -Jacinto shrugged. "A man can do whole lot when they hunt him day and -night like an animal. Navajos on the north, Apaches on the south; the -Ácoma run up a rock to be safe." -</p> -<p> -All this plain, the Bishop gathered, had once been the scene of a -periodic man-hunt; these Indians, born in fear and dying by violence for -generations, had at last taken this leap away from the earth, and on -that rock had found the hope of all suffering and tormented -creatures—safety. They came down to the plain to hunt and to grow -their crops, but there was always a place to go back to. If a band of -Navajos were on the Ácoma's trail, there was still one hope; if he -could reach his rock—Sanctuary! On the winding stone stairway up -the cliff, a handful of men could keep off a multitude. The rock of -Ácoma had never been taken by a foe but once,—by Spaniards in -armour. It was very different from a mountain fastness; more lonely, -more stark and grim, more appealing to the imagination. The rock, when -one came to think of it, was the utmost expression of human need; even -mere feeling yearned for it; it was the highest comparison of loyalty in -love and friendship. Christ Himself had used that comparison for the -disciple to whom He gave the keys of His Church. And the Hebrews of the -Old Testament, always being carried captive into foreign -lands,—their rock was an idea of God, the only thing their -conquerors could not take from them. -</p> -<p> -Already the Bishop had observed in Indian life a strange literalness, -often shocking and disconcerting. The Ácomas, who must share the -universal human yearning for something permanent, enduring, without -shadow of change,—they had their idea in substance. They actually -lived upon their Rock; were born upon it and died upon it. There was an -element of exaggeration in anything so simple! -</p> -<p> -As they drew near the Ácoma mesa, dark clouds began boiling up from -behind it, like ink spots spreading in a brilliant sky. -</p> -<p> -"Rain come," remarked Jacinto. "That is good. They will be well -disposed." He left the mules in a stake corral at the foot of the mesa, -took up the blankets, and hurried Father Latour into the narrow crack in -the rock where the craggy edges formed a kind of natural stairway up the -cliff. Wherever the footing was treacherous, it was helped out by little -handholds, ground into the stone like smooth mittens. The mesa was -absolutely naked of vegetation, but at its foot a rank plant grew -conspicuously out of the sand; a plant with big white blossoms like -Easter lilies. By its dark blue-green leaves, large and coarse-toothed, -Father Latour recognized a species of the noxious datura. The size and -luxuriance of these nightshades astonished him. They looked like great -artificial plants, made of shining silk. -</p> -<p> -While they were ascending the rock, deafening thunder broke over their -heads, and the rain began to fall as if it were spilled from a -cloud-burst. Drawing into a deep twist of the stairway, under an -overhanging ledge, they watched the water shaken in heavy curtains in -the air before them. In a moment the seam in which they stood was like -the channel of a brook. Looking out over the great plain spotted with -mesas and glittering with rain sheets, the Bishop saw the distant -mountains bright with sunlight. Again he thought that the first Creation -morning might have looked like this, when the dry land was first drawn -up out of the deep, and all was confusion. -</p> -<p> -The storm was over in half an hour. By the time the Bishop and his guide -reached the last turn in the trail, and rose through the crack, stepping -out on the flat top of the rock, the noontide sun was blazing down upon -Ácoma with almost insupportable brightness. The bare stone floor of the -town and its deepworn paths were washed white and clean, and those -depressions in the surface which the Ácomas call their cisterns, were -full of fresh rain water. Already the women were bringing out their -clothes, to begin washing. The drinking water was carried up the -stairway in earthen jars on the heads of the women, from a secret spring -below; but for all other purposes the people depended on the rainfall -held in these cisterns. -</p> -<p> -The top of the mesa was about ten acres in extent, the Bishop judged, -and there was not a tree or a blade of green upon it; not a handful of -soil, except the churchyard, held in by an adobe wall, where the earth -for burial had been carried up in baskets from the plain below. The -white dwellings, two and three storeyed, were not scattered, but huddled -together in a close cluster, with no protecting slope of ground or -shoulder of rock, lying flat against the flat, bright against the -bright,—both the rock and the plastered houses threw off the sun -glare blindingly. -</p> -<p> -At the very edge of the mesa, overhanging the abyss so that its -retaining wall was like a part of the cliff itself, was the old warlike -church of Ácoma, with its two stone towers. Gaunt, grim, grey, its nave -rising some seventy feet to a sagging, half-ruined roof, it was more -like a fortress than a place of worship. That spacious interior -depressed the Bishop as no other mission church had done. He held a -service there before midday, and he had never found it so hard to go -through the ceremony of the Mass. Before him, on the grey floor, in the -grey light, a group of bright shawls and blankets, some fifty or sixty -silent faces; above and behind them the grey walls. He felt as if he -were celebrating Mass at the bottom of the sea, for antediluvian -creatures; for types of life so old, so hardened, so shut within their -shells, that the sacrifice on Calvary could hardly reach back so far. -Those shell-like backs behind him might be saved by baptism and divine -grace, as undeveloped infants are, but hardly through any experience of -their own, he thought. When he blessed them and sent them away, it was -with a sense of inadequacy and spiritual defeat. -</p> -<p> -After he had laid aside his vestments, Father Latour went over the -church with Jacinto. As he examined it his wonder grew. What need had -there ever been for this great church at Ácoma? It was built early in -sixteen hundred, by Fray Juan Ramirez, a great missionary, who laboured -on the Rock of Ácoma for twenty years or more. It was Father Ramirez, -too, who made the mule trail down the other side,—the only path by -which a burro can ascend the mesa, and which is still called "El Camino -del Padre." -</p> -<p> -The more Father Latour examined this church, the more he was inclined to -think that Fray Ramirez, or some Spanish priest who followed him, was -not altogether innocent of worldly ambition, and that they built for -their own satisfaction, perhaps, rather than according to the needs of -the Indians. The magnificent site, the natural grandeur of this -stronghold, might well have turned their heads a little. Powerful men -they must have been, those Spanish Fathers, to draft Indian labour for -this great work without military support. Every stone in that structure, -every handful of earth in those many thousand pounds of adobe, was -carried up the trail on the backs of men and boys and women. And the -great carved beams of the roof—Father Latour looked at them with -amazement. In all the plain through which he had come he had seen no -trees but a few stunted piñons. He asked Jacinto where these huge -timbers could have been found. -</p> -<p> -"San Mateo mountain, I guess." -</p> -<p> -"But the San Mateo mountains must be forty or fifty miles away. How -could they bring such timbers?" -</p> -<p> -Jacinto shrugged. "Ácomas carry." Certainly there was no other -explanation. -</p> -<p> -Besides the church proper there was the cloister, large, thick-walled, -which must have required an enormous labour of portage from the plain. -The deep cloister corridors were cool when the rock outside was -blistering; the low arches opened on an enclosed garden which, judging -from its depth of earth, must once have been very verdant. Pacing those -shady passages, with four feet of solid, windowless adobe shutting out -everything but the green garden and the turquoise sky above, the early -missionaries might well have forgotten the poor Ácomas, that tribe of -ancient rock-turtles, and believed themselves in some cloister hung on a -spur of the Pyrenees. -</p> -<p> -In the grey dust of the enclosed garden two thin, half-dead peach trees -still struggled with the drouth, the kind of unlikely tree that grows up -from an old root and never bears. By the wall yellow suckers put out -from an old vine stump, very thick and hard, which must once have borne -its ripe clusters. -</p> -<p> -Built upon the north-east corner of the cloister the Bishop found a -loggia—roofed, but with open sides, looking down on the white pueblo -and the tawny rock, and over the wide plain below. There he decided he -would spend the night. From this loggia he watched the sun go down; -watched the desert become dark, the shadows creep upward. Abroad in the -plain the scattered mesa tops, red with the afterglow, one by one lost -their light, like candles going out. He was on a naked rock in the -desert, in the stone age, a prey to homesickness for his own kind, his -own epoch, for European man and his glorious history of desire and -dreams. Through all the centuries that his own part of the world had -been changing like the sky at day-break, this people had been fixed, -increasing neither in numbers nor desires, rock-turtles on their rock. -Something reptilian he felt here, something that had endured by -immobility, a kind of life out of reach, like the crustaceans in their -armour. -</p> -<p> -On his homeward way the Bishop spent another night with Father Jesus, -the good priest at Isleta, who talked with him much of the Moqui country -and of those very old rock-set pueblos still farther to the west. One -story related to a long-forgotten friar at Ácoma, and was somewhat as -follows: -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE LEGEND OF FRAY BALTAZAR</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">S</span>OME time in the very early years of -seventeen hundred, nearly fifty years after the great Indian uprising in -which all the missionaries and all the Spaniards in northern New Mexico -were either driven out or murdered, after the country had been -reconquered and new missionaries had come to take the place of the -martyrs, a certain Friar Baltazar Montoya was priest at Ácoma. He was -of a tyrannical and overbearing disposition and bore a hard hand on the -natives. All the missions now in ruins were active then, each had its -resident priest, who lived for the people or upon the people, according -to his nature. Friar Baltazar was one of the most ambitious and -exacting. It was his belief that the pueblo of Ácoma existed chiefly to -support its fine church, and that this should be the pride of the -Indians as it was his. He took the best of their corn and beans and -squashes for his table, and selected the choicest portions when they -slaughtered a sheep, chose their best hides to carpet his dwelling. -Moreover, he exacted a heavy tribute in labour. He was never done with -having earth carried up from the plain in baskets. He enlarged the -churchyard and made the deep garden in the cloister, enriching it with -dung from the corrals. Here he was able to grow a wonderful garden, -since it was watered every evening by women,—and this despite the -fact that it was not proper that a woman should ever enter the cloister -at all. Each woman owed the Padre so many <i>ollas</i> of water a week -from the cisterns, and they murmured not only because of the labour, but -because of the drain on their water-supply. -</p> -<p> -Baltazar was not a lazy man, and in his first years there, before he -became stout, he made long journeys in behalf of his mission and his -garden. He went as far as Oraibi, many days' journey, to select their -best peach seeds. (The peach orchards of Oraibi were very old, having -been cultivated since the days of the earliest Spanish expeditions, when -Coronado's captains gave the Moquis peach seeds brought from Spain.) His -grape cuttings were brought from Sonora in baskets on muleback, and he -would go all the way to the Villa (Santa Fé) for choice garden seeds, -at the season when pack trains came up the Rio Grande valley. The early -churchmen did a great business in carrying seeds about, though the -Indians and Mexicans were satisfied with beans and squashes and chili, -asking nothing more. -</p> -<p> -Friar Baltazar was from a religious house in Spain which was noted for -good living, and he himself had worked in the refectory. He was an -excellent cook and something of a carpenter, and he took a great deal of -trouble to make himself comfortable upon that rock at the end of the -world. He drafted two Indian boys into his service, one to care for his -ass and work in the garden, the other to cook and wait upon him at -table. In time, as he grew more unwieldy in figure, he adopted a third -boy and employed him as a runner to the distant missions. This boy would -go on foot all the way to the Villa for red cloth or an iron spade or a -new knife, stopping at Bernalillo to bring home a wineskin full of grape -brandy. He would go five days' journey to the Sandia mountains to catch -fish and dry or salt them for the Padre's fast-days, or run to Zuñi, -where the Fathers raised rabbits, and bring back a pair for the spit. -His errands were seldom of an ecclesiastical nature. -</p> -<p> -It was clear that the Friar at Ácoma lived more after the flesh than -after the spirit. The difficulty of obtaining an interesting and varied -diet on a naked rock seemed only to whet his appetite and tempt his -resourcefulness. But his sensuality went no further than his garden and -table. Carnal commerce with the Indian women would have been very easy -indeed, and the Friar was at the hardy age of ripe manhood when such -temptations are peculiarly sharp. But the missionaries had early -discovered that the slightest departure from chastity greatly weakened -their influence and authority with their Indian converts. The Indians -themselves sometimes practised continence as a penance, or as a strong -medicine with the spirits, and they were very willing that their Padre -should practise it for them. The consequences of carnal indulgence were -perhaps more serious here than in Spain, and Friar Baltazar seems never -to have given his flock an opportunity to exult over his frailty. -</p> -<p> -He held his seat at Ácoma for nearly fifteen prosperous years, -constantly improving his church and his living-quarters, growing new -vegetables and medicinal herbs, making soap from the yucca root. Even -after he became stout, his arms were strong and muscular, his fingers -clever. He cultivated his peach trees, and watched over his garden like -a little kingdom, never allowing the native women to grow slack in the -water-supply. His first serving-boys were released to marry, and others -succeeded them, who were even more minutely trained. -</p> -<p> -Baltazar's tyranny grew little by little, and the Ácoma people were -sometimes at the point of revolt. But they could not estimate just how -powerful the Padre's magic might be and were afraid to put it to the -test. There was no doubt that the holy picture of St. Joseph had come to -them from the King of Spain by the request of this Padre, and that -picture had been more effective in averting drouth than all the native -rain-makers had been. Properly entreated and honoured, the painting had -never failed to produce rain. Ácoma had not lost its crops since Friar -Baltazar first brought the picture to them, though at Laguna and Zuñi -there had been drouths that compelled the people to live upon their -famine store,—an alarming extremity. -</p> -<p> -The Laguna Indians were constantly sending legations to Ácoma to -negotiate terms at which they could rent the holy picture, but Friar -Baltazar had warned them never to let it go. If such powerful protection -were withdrawn, or if the Padre should turn the magic against them, the -consequences might be disastrous to the pueblo. Better give him his -choice of grain and lambs and pottery, and allow him his three -serving-boys. So the missionary and his converts rubbed along in seeming -friendliness. -</p> -<p> -One summer the Friar, who did not make long journeys now that he had -grown large in girth, decided that he would like company,—someone to -admire his fine garden, his ingenious kitchen, his airy loggia with its -rugs and water jars, where he meditated and took his after-dinner -siesta. So he planned to give a dinner party in the week after St. -John's Day. -</p> -<p> -He sent his runner to Zuñi, Laguna, Isleta, and bade the Padres to a -feast. They came upon the day, four of them, for there were two priests -at Zuñi. The stable-boy was stationed at the foot of the rock to take -their beasts and conduct the visitors up the stairway. At the head of -the trail Baltazar received them. They were shown over the place, and -spent the morning gossiping in the cloister walks, cool and silent, -though the naked rock outside was almost too hot for the hand to touch. -The vine leaves rustled agreeably in the breeze, and the earth about the -carrot and onion tops, as it dried from last night's watering, gave off -a pleasant smell. The guests thought their host lived very well, and -they wished they had his secret. If he was a trifle boastful of his -air-bound seat, no one could blame him. -</p> -<p> -With the dinner, Baltazar had taken extravagant pains. The monastery in -which he had learned to cook was off the main highway to Seville; the -Spanish nobles and the King himself sometimes stopped there for -entertainment. In that great kitchen, with its multiplicity of spits, -small enough to roast a lark and large enough to roast a boar, the Friar -had learned a thing or two about sauces, and in his lonely years at -Ácoma he had bettered his instruction by a natural aptitude for the -art. The poverty of materials had proved an incentive rather than a -discouragement. -</p> -<p> -Certainly the visiting missionaries had never sat down to food like that -which rejoiced them to-day in the cool refectory, the blinds open just -enough to admit a streak of throbbing desert far below them. Their host -was telling them pompously that he would have a fountain in the cloister -close when they came again. He had to check his hungry guests in their -zeal for the relishes and the soup, warning them to save their mettle -for what was to come. The roast was to be a wild turkey, superbly -done—but that, alas, was never tasted. The course which preceded it -was the host's especial care, and here he had trusted nothing to his cook; -hare <i>jardinière</i> (his carrots and onions were tender and well -flavoured), with a sauce which he had been perfecting for many years. -This entrée was brought from the kitchen in a large earthen dish—but -not large enough, for with its luxury of sauce and floating carrots it -filled the platter to the brim. The stable-boy was serving to-day, as -the cook could not leave his spits, and he had been neat, brisk, and -efficient. The Friar was pleased with him, and was wondering whether he -could not find some little medal of bronze or silver-gilt to reward him -for his pains. -</p> -<p> -When the hare in its sauce came on, the priest from Isleta chanced to be -telling a funny story at which the company were laughing uproariously. -The serving-boy, who knew a little Spanish, was apparently trying to get -the point of the recital which made the Padres so merry. At any rate, he -became distracted, and as he passed behind the senior priest of Zuñi, -he tipped his full platter and spilled a stream of rich brown gravy over -the good man's head and shoulders. Baltazar was quick-tempered, and he -had been drinking freely of the fiery grape brandy. He caught up the -empty pewter mug at his right and threw it at the clumsy lad with a -malediction. It struck the boy on the side of the head. He dropped the -platter, staggered a few steps, and fell down. He did not get up, nor -did he move. The Padre from Zuñi was skilled in medicine. Wiping the -sauce from his eyes, he bent over the boy and examined him. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Muerto</i>," he whispered. With that he plucked his junior priest by -the sleeve, and the two bolted across the garden without another word and -made for the head of the stairway. In a moment the Padres of Laguna and -Isleta unceremoniously followed their example. With remarkable speed the -four guests got them down from the rock, saddled their mules, and urged -them across the plain. -</p> -<p> -Baltazar was left alone with the consequences of his haste. -Unfortunately the cook, astonished at the prolonged silence, had looked -in at the door just as the last pair of brown gowns were vanishing -across the cloister. He saw his comrade lying upon the floor, and -silently disappeared from the premises by an exit known only to himself. -</p> -<p> -When Friar Baltazar went into the kitchen he found it solitary, the -turkey still dripping on the spit. Certainly he had no appetite for the -roast. He felt, indeed, very remorseful and uncomfortable, also -indignant with his departed guests. For a moment he entertained the idea -of following them; but a temporary flight would only weaken his -position, and a permanent evacuation was not to be thought of. His -garden was at its prime, his peaches were just coming ripe, and his -vines hung heavy with green clusters. Mechanically he took the turkey -from the spit, not because he felt any inclination for food, but from an -instinct of compassion, quite as if the bird could suffer from being -burned to a crisp. This done, he repaired to his loggia and sat down to -read his breviary, which he had neglected for several days, having been -so occupied in the refectory. He had begrudged no pains to that sauce -which had been his undoing. -</p> -<p> -The airy loggia, where he customarily took his afternoon repose, was -like a birdcage hung in the breeze. Through its open archways he looked -down on the huddled pueblo, and out over the great mesa-strewn plain far -below. He was unable to fix his mind upon his office. The pueblo down -there was much too quiet. At this hour there should be a few women -washing pots or rags, a few children playing by the cisterns and chasing -the turkeys. But to-day the rock top baked in the fire of the sun in -utter silence, not one human being was visible—yes, one, though he -had not been there a moment ago. At the head of the stone stairway, there -was a patch of lustrous black, just above the rocks; an Indian's hair. -They had set a guard at the trail head. -</p> -<p> -Now the Padre began to feel alarmed, to wish he had gone down that -stairway with the others, while there was yet time. He wished he were -anywhere in the world but on this rock. There was old Father Ramirez's -donkey path; but if the Indians were watching one road, they would watch -the other. The spot of black hair never stirred; and there were but -those two ways down to the plain, only those ... Whichever way one -turned, three hundred and fifty feet of naked cliff, without one tree or -shrub a man could cling to. -</p> -<p> -As the sun sank lower and lower, there began a deep, singing murmur of -male voices from the pueblo below him, not a chant, but the rhythmical -intonation of Indian oratory when a serious matter is under discussion. -Frightful stories of the torture of the missionaries in the great -rebellion of 1680 flashed into Friar Baltazar's mind; how one Franciscan -had his eyes torn out, another had been burned, and the old Padre at -Jamez had been stripped naked and driven on all fours about the plaza -all night, with drunken Indians straddling his back, until he rolled -over dead from exhaustion. -</p> -<p> -Moonrise from the loggia was an impressive sight, even to this Brother -who was not over-impressionable. But to-night he wished he could keep -the moon from coming up through the floor of the desert,—the moon was -the clock which began things in the pueblo. He watched with horror for -that golden rim against the deep blue velvet of the night. -</p> -<p> -The moon came, and at its coming the Ácoma people issued from their -doors. A company of men walked silently across the rock to the cloister. -They came up the ladder and appeared in the loggia. The Friar asked them -gruffly what they wanted, but they made no reply. Not once speaking to -him or to each other, they bound his feet together and tied his arms to -his sides. -</p> -<p> -The Ácoma people told afterwards that he did not supplicate or -struggle; had he done so, they might have dealt more cruelly with him. -But he knew his Indians, and that when once they had collectively made -up their pueblo mind ... Moreover, he was a proud old Spaniard, and had -a certain fortitude lodged in his well-nourished body. He was accustomed -to command, not to entreat, and he retained the respect of his Indian -vassals to the end. -</p> -<p> -They carried him down the ladder and through the cloister and across the -rock to the most precipitous cliff—the one over which the Ácoma women -flung broken pots and such refuse as the turkeys would not eat. There -the people were assembled. They cut his bonds, and taking him by the -hands and feet, swung him out over the rock-edge and back a few times. -He was heavy, and perhaps they thought this dangerous sport. No sound -but hissing breath came through his teeth. The four executioners took -him up again from the brink where they had laid him, and, after a few -feints, dropped him in mid-air. -</p> -<p> -So did they rid their rock of their tyrant, whom on the whole they had -liked very well. But everything has its day. The execution was not -followed by any sacrilege to the church or defiling of holy vessels, but -merely by a division of the Padre's stores and household goods. The -women, indeed, took pleasure in watching the garden pine and waste away -from thirst, and ventured into the cloisters to laugh and chatter at the -whitening foliage of the peach trees, and the green grapes shrivelling -on the vines. -</p> -<p> -When the next priest came, years afterward, he found no ill will -awaiting him. He was a native Mexican, of unpretentious tastes, who was -well satisfied with beans and jerked meat, and let the pueblo turkey -flock scratch in the hot dust that had once been Baltazar's garden. The -old peach stumps kept sending up pale sprouts for many years. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap04"></a>BOOK FOUR -<br><br> -<i>SNAKE ROOT</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE NIGHT AT PECOS</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span> MONTH after the Bishop's visit to -Albuquerque and Ácoma, the genial Father Gallegos was formally -suspended, and Father Vaillant himself took charge of the parish. At -first there was bitter feeling; the rich <i>rancheros</i> and the merry -ladies of Albuquerque were very hostile to the French priest. He began -his reforms at once. Everything was changed. The holy-days, which had -been occasions of revelry under Padre Gallegos, were now days of austere -devotion. The fickle Mexican population soon found as much diversion in -being devout as they had once found in being scandalous. Father Vaillant -wrote to his sister Philomène, in France, that the temper of his parish -was like that of a boys' school; under one master the lads try to excel -one another in mischief and disobedience, under another they vie with -each other in acts of loyalty. The Novena preceding Christmas, which had -long been celebrated by dances and hilarious merry-making, was this year -a great revival of religious zeal. -</p> -<p> -Though Father Vaillant had all the duties of a parish priest at -Albuquerque, he was still Vicar General, and in February the Bishop -dispatched him on urgent business to Las Vegas. He did not return on the -day that he was expected, and when several days passed with no word from -him, Father Latour began to feel some anxiety. -</p> -<p> -One morning at day-break a very sick Indian boy rode into the Bishop's -courtyard on Father Joseph's white mule, Contento, bringing bad news. -The Padre, he said, had stopped at his village in the Pecos mountains -where black measles had broken out, to give the sacrament to the dying, -and had fallen ill of the sickness. The boy himself had been well when -he started for Santa Fé, but had become sick on the way. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop had the messenger put into the wood-house, an isolated -building at the end of the garden, where the Sisters of Loretto could -tend him. He instructed the Mother Superior to pack a bag with such -medicines and comforts for the sick as he could carry, and told -Fructosa, his cook, to put up for him the provisions he usually took on -horseback journeys. When his man brought a pack-mule and his own mule, -Angelica, to the door, Father Latour, already in his rough -riding-breeches and buckskin jacket, looked at the handsome beast and -shook his head. -</p> -<p> -"No, leave her with Contento. The new army mule is heavier, and will do -for this journey." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop rode out of Santa Fé two hours after the Indian messenger -rode in. He was going direct to the pueblo of Pecos, where he would pick -up Jacinto. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the pueblo, -lying low on its red rock ledges, half-surrounded by a crown of fir-clad -mountains, and facing a sea of junipers and cedars. The Bishop had meant -to get fresh horses at Pecos and push on through the mountains, but -Jacinto and the older Indians who gathered about the horseman, strongly -advised him to spend the night there and start in the early morning. The -sun was shining brilliantly in a blue sky, but in the west, behind the -mountain, lay a great stationary black cloud, opaque and motionless as a -ledge of rock. The old men looked at it and shook their heads. -</p> -<p> -"Very big wind," said the governor gravely. -</p> -<p> -Unwillingly the Bishop dismounted and gave his mules to Jacinto; it -seemed to him that he was wasting time. There was still an hour before -nightfall, and he spent that hour pacing up and down the crust of bare -rock between the village and the ruin of the old mission church. The sun -was sinking, a red ball which threw a copper glow over the pine-covered -ridge of mountains, and edged that inky, ominous cloud with molten -silver. The great red earth walls of the mission, red as brick-dust, -yawned gloomily before him,—part of the roof had fallen in, and the -rest would soon go. -</p> -<p> -At this moment Father Joseph was lying dangerously ill in the dirt and -discomfort of an Indian village in winter. Why, the Bishop was asking -himself, had he ever brought his friend to this life of hardship and -danger? Father Vaillant had been frail from childhood, though he had the -endurance resulting from exhaustless enthusiasm. The Brothers at -Montferrand were not given to coddling boys, but every year they used to -send this one away for a rest in the high Volvic mountains, because his -vitality ran down under the confinement of college life. Twice, while he -and Father Latour were missionaries in Ohio, Joseph had been at death's -door; once so ill with cholera that the newspapers had printed his name -in the death list. On that occasion their Ohio Bishop had christened him -<i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>. Yes, Father Latour told himself, <i>Blanchet</i> had -outwitted death so often, there was always the chance he would do it -again. -</p> -<p> -Walking about the walls of the ruin, the Bishop discovered that the -sacristy was dry and clean, and he decided to spend the night there, -wrapped in his blankets, on one of the earthen benches that ran about -the inner walls. While he was examining this room, the wind began to -howl about the old church, and darkness fell quickly. From the low -doorways of the pueblo ruddy fire-light was gleaming—singularly -grateful to the eye. Waiting for him on the rocks, he recognized the -slight figure of Jacinto, his blanket drawn close about his head, his -shoulders bowed to the wind. -</p> -<p> -The young Indian said that supper was ready, and the Bishop followed him -to his particular lair in those rows of little houses all alike and all -built together. There was a ladder before Jacinto's door which led up to -a second storey, but that was the dwelling of another family; the roof -of Jacinto's house made a veranda for the family above him. The Bishop -bent his head under the low doorway and stepped down; the floor of the -room was a long step below the doorsill—the Indian way of preventing -drafts. The room into which he descended was long and narrow, smoothly -whitewashed, and clean, to the eye, at least, because of its very -bareness. There was nothing on the walls but a few fox pelts and strings -of gourds and red peppers. The richly coloured blankets of which Jacinto -was very proud were folded in piles on the earth settle,—it was there -he and his wife slept, near the fire-place. The earth of that settle -became warm during the day and held its heat until morning, like the -Russian peasants' stove-bed. Over the fire a pot of beans and dried meat -was simmering. The burning piñon logs filled the room with -sweet-smelling smoke. Clara, Jacinto's wife, smiled at the priest as he -entered. She ladled out the stew, and the Bishop and Jacinto sat down on -the floor beside the fire, each with his bowl. Between them Clara put a -basin full of hot corn-bread baked with squash seeds,—an Indian -delicacy comparable to raisin bread among the whites. The Bishop said a -blessing and broke the bread with his hands. While the two men ate, the -young woman watched them and stirred a tiny cradle of deerskin which -hung by thongs from the roof poles. Jacinto, when questioned, said sadly -that the baby was ailing. Father Latour did not ask to see it; it would -be swathed in layers of wrappings, he knew; even its face and head would -be covered against drafts. Indian babies were never bathed in winter, -and it was useless to suggest treatment for the sick ones. On that -subject the Indian ear was closed to advice. -</p> -<p> -It was a pity, too, that he could do nothing for Jacinto's baby. Cradles -were not many in the pueblo of Pecos. The tribe was dying out; infant -mortality was heavy, and the young couples did not reproduce -freely,—the life-force seemed low. Smallpox and measles had taken -heavy toll here time and again. -</p> -<p> -Of course there were other explanations, credited by many good people in -Santa Fé. Pecos had more than its share of dark legends,—perhaps that -was because it had been too tempting to white men, and had had more than -its share of history. It was said that this people had from time -immemorial kept a ceremonial fire burning in some cave in the mountain, -a fire that had never been allowed to go out, and had never been -revealed to white men. The story was that the service of this fire -sapped the strength of the young men appointed to serve it,—always -the best of the tribe. Father Latour thought this hardly probable. Why -should it be very arduous, in a mountain full of timber, to feed a fire -so small that its whereabouts had been concealed for centuries? -</p> -<p> -There was also the snake story, reported by the early explorers, both -Spanish and American, and believed ever since: that this tribe was -peculiarly addicted to snake worship, that they kept rattlesnakes -concealed in their houses, and somewhere in the mountain guarded an -enormous serpent which they brought to the pueblo for certain feasts. It -was said that they sacrificed young babies to the great snake, and thus -diminished their numbers. -</p> -<p> -It seemed much more likely that the contagious diseases brought by white -men were the real cause of the shrinkage of the tribe. Among the -Indians, measles, scarlatina and whooping-cough were as deadly as typhus -or cholera. Certainly, the tribe was decreasing every year. Jacinto's -house was at one end of the living pueblo; behind it were long rock ridges -of dead pueblo,—empty houses ruined by weather and now scarcely -more than piles of earth and stone. The population of the living streets -was less than one hundred adults.<a id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> This was all that was left of the -rich and populous Cicuyè of Coronado's expedition. Then, by his report, -there were six thousand souls in the Indian town. They had rich fields -irrigated from the Pecos River. The streams were full of fish, the -mountain was full of game. The pueblo, indeed, seemed to lie upon the -knees of these verdant mountains, like a favoured child. Out yonder, on -the juniper-spotted plateau in front of the village, the Spaniards had -camped, exacting a heavy tribute of corn and furs and cotton garments -from their hapless hosts. It was from here, the story went, that they -set forth in the spring on their ill-fated search for the seven golden -cities of Quivera, taking with them slaves and concubines ravished from -the Pecos people. -</p> -<p> -As Father Latour sat by the fire and listened to the wind sweeping down -from the mountains and howling over the plateau, he thought of these -things; and he could not help wondering whether Jacinto, sitting silent -by the same fire, was thinking of them, too. The wind, he knew, was -blowing out of the inky cloud bank that lay behind the mountain at -sunset; but it might well be blowing out of a remote, black past. The -only human voice raised against it was the feeble wailing of the sick -child in the cradle. Clara ate noiselessly in a corner, Jacinto looked -into the fire. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop read his breviary by the fire-light for an hour. Then, warmed -to the bone and assured that his roll of blankets was warmed through, he -rose to go. Jacinto followed with the blankets and one of his own -buffalo robes. They went along a line of red doorways and across the -bare rock to the gaunt ruin, whose lateral walls, with their buttresses, -still braved the storm and let in the starlight. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a><i>In actual fact, the dying pueblo of Pecos was abandoned -some years before the American occupation of New Mexico.</i></p></div> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>STONE LIPS</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T was not difficult for the Bishop to -waken early. After midnight his body became more and more chilled and -cramped. He said his prayers before he rolled out of his blankets, -remembering Father Vaillant's maxim that if you said your prayers first, -you would find plenty of time for other things afterward. -</p> -<p> -Going through the silent pueblo to Jacinto's door, the Bishop woke him -and asked him to make a fire. While the Indian went to get the mules -ready, Father Latour got his coffee-pot and tin cup out of his -saddle-bags, and a round loaf of Mexican bread. With bread and black -coffee, he could travel day after day. Jacinto was for starting without -breakfast, but Father Latour made him sit down and share his loaf. Bread -is never too plenty in Indian households. Clara was still lying on the -settle with her baby. -</p> -<p> -At four o'clock they were on the road, Jacinto riding the mule that -carried the blankets. He knew the trails through his own mountains well -enough to follow them in the dark. Toward noon the Bishop suggested a -halt to rest the mules, but his guide looked at the sky and shook his -head. The sun was nowhere to be seen, the air was thick and grey and -smelled of snow. Very soon the snow began to fall—lightly at first, -but all the while becoming heavier. The vista of pine trees ahead of them -grew shorter and shorter through the vast powdering of descending -flakes. A little after midday a burst of wind sent the snow whirling in -coils about the two travellers, and a great storm broke. The wind was -like a hurricane at sea, and the air became blind with snow. The Bishop -could scarcely see his guide—saw only parts of him, now a head, now a -shoulder, now only the black rump of his mule. Pine trees by the way -stood out for a moment, then disappeared absolutely in the whirlpool of -snow. Trail and landmarks, the mountain itself, were obliterated. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto sprang from his mule and unstrapped the roll of blankets. -Throwing the saddle-bags to the Bishop, he shouted, "Come, I know a -place. Be quick, Padre." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop protested they could not leave the mules. Jacinto said the -mules must take their chance. -</p> -<p> -For Father Latour the next hour was a test of endurance. He was blind -and breathless, panting through his open mouth. He clambered over -half-visible rocks, fell over prostrate trees, sank into deep holes and -struggled out, always following the red blankets on the shoulders of the -Indian boy, which stuck out when the boy himself was lost to sight. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly the snow seemed thinner. The guide stopped short. They were -standing, the Bishop made out, under an overhanging wall of rock which -made a barrier against the storm. Jacinto dropped the blankets from his -shoulder and seemed to be preparing to climb the cliff. Looking up, the -Bishop saw a peculiar formation in the rocks; two rounded ledges, one -directly over the other, with a mouth-like opening between. They -suggested two great stone lips, slightly parted and thrust outward. Up -to this mouth Jacinto climbed quickly by footholds well known to him. -Having mounted, he lay down on the lower lip, and helped the Bishop to -clamber up. He told Father Latour to wait for him on this projection -while he brought up the baggage. -</p> -<p> -A few moments later the Bishop slid after Jacinto and the blankets, -through the orifice, into the throat of the cave. Within stood a wooden -ladder, like that used in kivas, and down this he easily made his way to -the floor. -</p> -<p> -He found himself in a lofty cavern, shaped somewhat like a Gothic -chapel, of vague outline,—the only light within was that which came -through the narrow aperture between the stone lips. Great as was his -need of shelter, the Bishop, on his way down the ladder, was struck by a -reluctance, an extreme distaste for the place. The air in the cave was -glacial, penetrated to the very bones, and he detected at once a fetid -odour, not very strong but highly disagreeable. Some twenty feet or so -above his head the open mouth let in grey daylight like a high transom. -</p> -<p> -While he stood gazing about, trying to reckon the size of the cave, his -guide was intensely preoccupied in making a careful examination of the -floor and walls. At the foot of the ladder lay a heap of half-burned -logs. There had been a fire there, and it had been extinguished with -fresh earth,—a pile of dust covered what had been the heart of the -fire. Against the cavern wall was a heap of piñon faggots, neatly -piled. After he had made a minute examination of the floor, the guide -began cautiously to move this pile of wood, taking the sticks up one by -one, and putting them in another spot. The Bishop supposed he would make -a fire at once, but he seemed in no haste to do so. Indeed, when he had -moved the wood he sat down upon the floor and fell into reflection. -Father Latour urged him to build a fire without further delay. -</p> -<p> -"Padre," said the Indian boy, "I do not know if it was right to bring -you here. This place is used by my people for ceremonies and is known -only to us. When you go out from here, you must forget." -</p> -<p> -"I will forget, certainly. But unless we can have a fire, we had better -go back into the storm. I feel ill here already." -</p> -<p> -Jacinto unrolled the blankets and threw the dryest one about the -shivering priest. Then he bent over the pile of ashes and charred wood, -but what he did was to select a number of small stones that had been -used to fence in the burning embers. These he gathered in his <i>serape</i> -and carried to the rear wall of the cavern, where, a little above his head, -there seemed to be a hole. It was about as large as a very big -watermelon, of an irregular oval shape. -</p> -<p> -Holes of that shape are common in the black volcanic cliffs of the -Pajarito Plateau, where they occur in great numbers. This one was -solitary, dark, and seemed to lead into another cavern. Though it lay -higher than Jacinto's head, it was not beyond easy reach of his arms, -and to the Bishop's astonishment he began deftly and noiselessly to -place the stones he had collected within the mouth of this orifice, -fitting them together until he had entirely closed it. He then cut -wedges from the piñon faggots and inserted them into the cracks between -the stones. Finally, he took a handful of the earth that had been used -to smother the dead fire, and mixed it with the wet snow that had blown -in between the stone lips. With this thick mud he plastered over his -masonry, and smoothed it with his palm. The whole operation did not take -a quarter of an hour. -</p> -<p> -Without comment or explanation he then proceeded to build a fire. The -odour so disagreeable to the Bishop soon vanished before the fragrance -of the burning logs. The heat seemed to purify the rank air at the same -time that it took away the deathly chill, but the dizzy noise in Father -Latour's head persisted. At first he thought it was a vertigo, a roaring -in his ears brought on by cold and changes in his circulation. But as he -grew warm and relaxed, he perceived an extraordinary vibration in this -cavern; it hummed like a hive of bees, like a heavy roll of distant -drums. After a time he asked Jacinto whether he, too, noticed this. The -slim Indian boy smiled for the first time since they had entered the -cave. He took up a faggot for a torch, and beckoned the Padre to follow -him along a tunnel which ran back into the mountain, where the roof grew -much lower, almost within reach of the hand. There Jacinto knelt down -over a fissure in the stone floor, like a crack in china, which was -plastered up with clay. Digging some of this out with his hunting knife, -he put his ear on the opening, listened a few seconds, and motioned the -Bishop to do likewise. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour lay with his ear to this crack for a long while, despite -the cold that arose from it. He told himself he was listening to one of -the oldest voices of the earth. What he heard was the sound of a great -underground river, flowing through a resounding cavern. The water was -far, far below, perhaps as deep as the foot of the mountain, a flood -moving in utter blackness under ribs of antediluvian rock. It was not a -rushing noise, but the sound of a great flood moving with majesty and -power. -</p> -<p> -"It is terrible," he said at last, as he rose. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Si, Padre</i>." Jacinto began spitting on the clay he had gouged out of -the seam, and plastered it up again. -</p> -<p> -When they returned to the fire, the patch of daylight up between the two -lips had grown much paler. The Bishop saw it die with regret. He took -from his saddle-bags his coffee-pot and a loaf of bread and a goat -cheese. Jacinto climbed up to the lower ledge of the entrance, shook a -pine tree, and filled the coffee-pot and one of the blankets with fresh -snow. While his guide was thus engaged, the Bishop took a swallow of old -Taos whisky from his pocket flask. He never liked to drink spirits in -the presence of an Indian. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto declared that he thought himself lucky to get bread and black -coffee. As he handed the Bishop back his tin cup after drinking its -contents, he rubbed his hand over his wide sash with a smile of pleasure -that showed all his white teeth. -</p> -<p> -"We had good luck to be near here," he said. "When we leave the mules, I -think I can find my way here, but I am not sure. I have not been here -very many times. You was scare, Padre?" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop reflected. "You hardly gave me time to be scared, boy. Were -you?" -</p> -<p> -The Indian shrugged his shoulders. "I think not to return to pueblo," he -admitted. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour read his breviary long by the light of the fire. Since -early morning his mind had been on other than spiritual things. At last -he felt that he could sleep. He made Jacinto repeat a <i>Pater Noster</i> -with him, as he always did on their night camps, rolled himself in his -blankets, and stretched out, feet to the fire. He had it in his mind, -however, to waken in the night and study a little the curious hole his -guide had so carefully closed. After he put on the mud, Jacinto had -never looked in the direction of that hole again, and Father Latour, -observing Indian good manners, had tried not to glance toward it. -</p> -<p> -He did waken, and the fire was still giving off a rich glow of light in -that lofty Gothic chamber. But there against the wall was his guide, -standing on some invisible foothold, his arms outstretched against the -rock, his body flattened against it, his ear over that patch of fresh -mud, listening; listening with supersensual ear, it seemed, and he -looked to be supported against the rock by the intensity of his -solicitude. The Bishop closed his eyes without making a sound and -wondered why he had supposed he could catch his guide asleep. -</p> -<p> -The next morning they crawled out through the stone lips, and dropped -into a gleaming white world. The snow-clad mountains were red in the -rising sun. The Bishop stood looking down over ridge after ridge of -wintry fir trees with the tender morning breaking over them, all their -branches laden with soft, rose-coloured clouds of virgin snow. -</p> -<p> -Jacinto said it would not be worth while to look for the mules. When the -snow melted, he would recover the saddles and bridles. They floundered -on foot some eight miles to a squatter's cabin, rented horses, and -completed their journey by starlight. When they reached Father Vaillant, -he was sitting up in a bed of buffalo skins, his fever broken, already -on the way to recovery. Another good friend had reached him before the -Bishop. Kit Carson, on a deer hunt in the mountains with two Taos -Indians, had heard that this village was stricken and that the Vicario -was there. He hurried to the rescue, and got into the pueblo with a pack -of venison meat just before the storm broke. As soon as Father Vaillant -could sit in the saddle, Carson and the Bishop took him back to Santa -Fé, breaking the journey into four days because of his enfeebled state. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The Bishop kept his word, and never spoke of Jacinto's cave to anyone, -but he did not cease from wondering about it. It flashed into his mind -from time to time, and always with a shudder of repugnance quite -unjustified by anything he had experienced there. It had been a -hospitable shelter to him in his extremity. Yet afterward he remembered -the storm itself, even his exhaustion, with a tingling sense of -pleasure. But the cave, which had probably saved his life, he remembered -with horror. No tales of wonder, he told himself, would ever tempt him -into a cavern hereafter. -</p> -<p> -At home again, in his own house, he still felt a certain curiosity about -this ceremonial cave, and Jacinto's puzzling behaviour. It seemed almost -to lend a colour of probability to some of those unpleasant stories -about the Pecos religion. He was already convinced that neither the -white men nor the Mexicans in Santa Fé understood anything about Indian -beliefs or the workings of the Indian mind. -</p> -<p> -Kit Carson had told him that the proprietor of the trading post between -Glorieta Pass and the Pecos pueblo had grown up a neighbour to these -Indians, and knew as much about them as anybody. His parents had kept -the trading post before him, and his mother was the first white woman in -that neighborhood. The trader's name was Zeb Orchard; he lived alone in -the mountains, selling salt and sugar and whisky and tobacco to red men -and white. Carson said that he was honest and truthful, a good friend to -the Indians, and had at one time wanted to marry a Pecos girl, but his -old mother, who was very proud of being "white," would not hear to it, -and so he had remained a single man and a recluse. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour made a point of stopping for the night with this trader on -one of his missionary journeys, in order to question him about the Pecos -customs and ceremonies. -</p> -<p> -Orchard said that the legend about the undying fire was unquestionably -true; but it was kept burning, not in the mountain, but in their own -pueblo. It was a smothered fire in a clay oven, and had been burning in -one of the kivas ever since the pueblo was founded, centuries ago. About -the snake stories, he was not certain. He had seen rattlesnakes around -the pueblo, to be sure, but there were rattlers everywhere. A Pecos boy -had been bitten on the ankle some years ago, and had come to him-for -whisky; he swelled up and was very sick, like any other boy. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop asked Orchard if he thought it probable that the Indians kept -a great serpent in concealment somewhere, as was commonly reported. -</p> -<p> -"They do keep some sort of varmint out in the mountain, that they bring -in for their religious ceremonies," the trader said. "But I don't know -if it's a snake or not. No white man knows anything about Indian -religion, Padre." -</p> -<p> -As they talked further, Orchard admitted that when he was a boy he had -been very curious about these snake stories himself, and once, at their -festival time, he had spied on the Pecos men, though that was not a very -safe thing to do. He had lain in ambush for two nights on the mountain, -and he saw a party of Indians bringing in a chest by torchlight. It was -about the size of a woman's trunk, and it was heavy enough to bend the -young aspen poles on which it was hung. "If I'd seen white men bringing -in a chest after dark," he observed, "I could have made a guess at what -was in it; money, or whisky, or fire-arms. But seeing it was Indians, I -can't say. It might have been only queer-shaped rocks their ancestors -had taken a notion to. The things they value most are worth nothing to -us. They've got their own superstitions, and their minds will go round -and round in the same old ruts till Judgment Day." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour remarked that their veneration for old customs was a -quality he liked in the Indians, and that it played a great part in his -own religion. -</p> -<p> -The trader told him he might make good Catholics among the Indians, but -he would never separate them from their own beliefs. "Their priests have -their own kind of mysteries. I don't know how much of it is real and how -much is made up. I remember something that happened when I was a little -fellow. One night a Pecos girl, with her baby in her arms, ran into the -kitchen here and begged my mother to hide her until after the festival, -for she'd seen signs between the <i>caciques</i>, and was sure they were -going to feed—her baby to the snake. Whether it was true or not, she -certainly believed it, poor thing, and Mother let her stay. It made a -great impression on me at the time." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap05"></a>BOOK FIVE -<br><br> -<i>PADRE MARTINEZ</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE OLD ORDER</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">B</span>ISHOP LATOUR, with Jacinto, was riding -through the mountains on his first official visit to Taos—after -Albuquerque, the largest and richest parish in his diocese. Both the -priest and people there were hostile to Americans and jealous of -interference. Any European, except a Spaniard, was regarded as a gringo. -The Bishop had let the parish alone, giving their animosity plenty of -time to cool. With Carson's help he had informed himself fully about -conditions there, and about the powerful old priest, Antonio José -Martinez, who was ruler in temporal as well as in spiritual affairs. -Indeed, before Father Latour's entrance upon the scene, Martinez had -been dictator to all the parishes in northern New Mexico, and the native -priests at Santa Fé were all of them under his thumb. -</p> -<p> -It was common talk that Padre Martinez had instigated the revolt of the -Taos Indians five years ago, when Bent, the American Governor, and a -dozen other white men were murdered and scalped. Seven of the Taos -Indians had been tried before a military court and hanged for the -murder, but no attempt had been made to call the plotting priest to -account. Indeed, Padre Martinez had managed to profit considerably by -the affair. -</p> -<p> -The Indians who were sentenced to death had sent for their Padre and -begged him to get them out of the trouble he had got them into. Martinez -promised to save their lives if they would deed him their lands, near -the pueblo. This they did, and after the conveyance was properly -executed the Padre troubled himself no more about the matter, but went -to pay a visit at his native town of Abiquiu. In his absence the seven -Indians were hanged on the appointed day. Martinez now cultivated their -fertile farms, which made him quite the richest man in the parish. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had had polite correspondence with Martinez, but had met -him only once, on that memorable occasion when the Padre had ridden up -from Taos to strengthen the Santa Fé clergy in their refusal to -recognize the new Bishop. But he could see him as if that were only -yesterday,—the priest of Taos was not a man one would easily forget. -One could not have passed him on the street without feeling his great -physical force and his imperious will. Not much taller than the Bishop -in reality, he gave the impression of being an enormous man. His broad -high shoulders were like a bull buffalo's, his big head was set -defiantly on a thick neck, and the full-cheeked, richly coloured, -egg-shaped Spanish face—how vividly the Bishop remembered that face! -It was so unusual that he would be glad to see it again; a high, narrow -forehead, brilliant yellow eyes set deep in strong arches, and full, -florid cheeks,—not blank areas of smooth flesh, as in Anglo-Saxon -faces, but full of muscular activity, as quick to change with feeling as -any of his features. His mouth was the very assertion of violent, -uncurbed passions and tyrannical self-will; the full lips thrust out and -taut, like the flesh of animals distended by fear or desire. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour judged that the day of lawless personal power was almost -over, even on the frontier, and this figure was to him already like -something picturesque and impressive, but really impotent, left over -from the past. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop and Jacinto left the mountains behind them, the trail dropped -to a plain covered by clumps of very old sage-brush, with trunks as -thick as a man's leg. Jacinto pointed out a cloud of dust moving rapidly -toward them,—a cavalcade of a hundred men or more, Indians and -Mexicans, come out to welcome their Bishop with shouting and musketry. -</p> -<p> -As the horsemen approached, Padre Martinez himself was easily -distinguishable—in buckskin breeches, high boots and silver spurs, a -wide Mexican hat on his head, and a great black cape wound about his -shoulders like a shepherd's plaid. He rode up to the Bishop and reining -in his black gelding, uncovered his head in a broad salutation, while -his escort surrounded the churchmen and fired their muskets into the -air. -</p> -<p> -The two priests rode side by side into Los Ranchos de Taos, a little -town of yellow walls and winding streets and green orchards. The -inhabitants were all gathered in the square before the church. When the -Bishop dismounted to enter the church, the women threw their shawls on -the dusty pathway for him to walk upon, and as he passed through the -kneeling congregation, men and women snatched for his hand to kiss the -Episcopal ring. In his own country all this would have been highly -distasteful to Jean Marie Latour. Here, these demonstrations seemed a -part of the high colour that was in landscape and gardens, in the -flaming cactus and the gaudily decorated altars,—in the agonized -Christs and dolorous Virgins and the very human figures of the saints. -He had already learned that with this people religion was necessarily -theatrical. -</p> -<p> -From Los Ranchos the party rode quickly across the grey plain into Taos -itself, to the priest's house, opposite the church, where a great throng -had collected. As the people sank on their knees, one boy, a gawky lad -of ten or twelve, remained standing, his mouth open and his hat on his -head. Padre Martinez reached over the heads of several kneeling women, -snatched off the boy's cap, and cuffed him soundly about the ears. When -Father Latour murmured in protest, the native priest said boldly: -</p> -<p> -"He is my own son, Bishop, and it is time I taught him manners." -</p> -<p> -So this was to be the tune, the Bishop reflected. His well-schooled -countenance did not change a shadow as he received this challenge, and -he passed on into the Padre's house. They went at once into Martinez's -study, where they found a young man lying on the floor, fast asleep. He -was a very large young man, very stout, lying on his back with his head -pillowed on a book, and as he breathed his bulk rose and fell amazingly. -He wore a Franciscan's brown gown, and his hair was clipped short. At -sight of the sleeper, Padre Martinez broke into a laugh and gave him a -no very gentle kick in the ribs. The fellow got to his feet in great -confusion, escaping through a door into the <i>patio</i>. -</p> -<p> -"You there," the Padre called after him, "only young men who work hard -at night want to sleep in the day! You must have been studying by -candlelight. I'll give you an examination in theology!" This was greeted -by a titter of feminine laughter from the windows across the court, -where the fugitive took refuge behind a washing hung out to dry. He bent -his tall, full figure and disappeared between a pair of wet sheets. -</p> -<p> -"That was my student, Trinidad," said Martinez, "a nephew of my old -friend Father Lucero, at Arroyo Hondo. He's a monk, but we want him to -take orders. We sent him to the Seminary in Durango, but he was either -too homesick or too stupid to learn anything, so I'm teaching him here. -We shall make a priest of him one day." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour was told to consider the house his own, but he had no wish -to. The disorder was almost more than his fastidious taste could bear. -The Padre's study table was sprinkled with snuff, and piled so high with -books that they almost hid the crucifix hanging behind it. Books were -heaped on chairs and tables all over the house,—and the books and the -floors were deep in the dust of spring sand-storms. Father Martinez's -boots and hats lay about in corners, his coats and cassocks were hung on -pegs and draped over pieces of furniture. Yet the place seemed overrun -by serving-women, young and old,—and by large yellow cats with full -soft fur, of a special breed, apparently. They slept in the -window-sills, lay on the well-curb in the <i>patio</i>; the boldest came, -directly, to the supper-table, where their master fed them carelessly -from his plate. -</p> -<p> -When they sat down to supper, the host introduced to the Bishop the -tall, stout young man with the protruding front, who had been asleep on -the floor. He said again that Trinidad Lucero was studying with him, and -was supposed to be his secretary,—adding that he spent most of his -time hanging about the kitchen and hindering the girls at their work. -</p> -<p> -These remarks were made in the young man's presence, but did not -embarrass him at all. His whole attention was fixed upon the mutton -stew, which he began to devour with undue haste as soon as his plate was -put before him. The Bishop observed later that Trinidad was treated very -much like a poor relation or a servant. He was sent on errands, was told -without ceremony to fetch the Padre's boots, to bring wood for the fire, -to saddle his horse. Father Latour disliked his personality so much that -he could scarcely look at him. His fat face was irritatingly stupid, and -had the grey, oily look of soft cheeses. The corners of his mouth were -deep folds in plumpness, like the creases in a baby's legs, and the -steel rim of his spectacles, where it crossed his nose, was embedded in -soft flesh. He said not one word during supper, but ate as if he were -afraid of never seeing food again. When his attention left his plate for -a moment, it was fixed in the same greedy way upon the girl who served -the table—and who seemed to regard him with careless contempt. The -student gave the impression of being always stupefied by one form of -sensual disturbance or another. -</p> -<p> -Padre Martinez, with a napkin tied round his neck to protect his -cassock, ate and drank generously. The Bishop found the food poor -enough, despite the many cooks, though the wine, which came from El Paso -del Norte, was very fair. -</p> -<p> -During supper, his host asked the Bishop flatly if he considered -celibacy an essential condition of the priest's vocation. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour replied merely that this question had been thrashed out -many centuries ago and decided once for all. -</p> -<p> -"Nothing is decided once for all," Martinez declared fiercely. "Celibacy -may be all very well for the French clergy, but not for ours. St. -Augustine himself says it is better not to go against nature. I find -every evidence that in his old age he regretted having practised -continence." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop said he would be interested to see the passages from which he -drew such conclusions, observing that he knew the writings of St. -Augustine fairly well. -</p> -<p> -"I have the telling passages all written down somewhere. I will find -them before you go. You have probably read them with a sealed mind. -Celibate priests lose their perceptions. No priest can experience -repentance and forgiveness of sin unless he himself falls into sin. -Since concupiscence is the most common form of temptation, it is better -for him to know something about it. The soul cannot be humbled by fasts -and prayer; it must be broken by mortal sin to experience forgiveness of -sin and rise to a state of grace. Otherwise, religion is nothing but -dead logic." -</p> -<p> -"This is a subject upon which we must confer later, and at some length," -said the Bishop quietly. "I shall reform these practices throughout my -diocese as rapidly as possible. I hope it will be but a short time until -there is not a priest left who does not keep all the vows he took when -he bound himself to the service of the altar." -</p> -<p> -The swarthy Padre laughed, and threw off the big cat which had mounted -to his shoulder. "It will keep you busy, Bishop. Nature has got the -start of you here. But for all that, our native priests are more devout -than your French Jesuits. We have a living Church here, not a dead arm -of the European Church. Our religion grew out of the soil, and has its -own roots. We pay a filial respect to the person of the Holy Father, but -Rome has no authority here. We do not require aid from the Propaganda, -and we resent its interference. The Church the Franciscan Fathers -planted here was cut off; this is the second growth, and is indigenous. -Our people are the most devout left in the world. If you blast their -faith by European formalities, they will become infidels and -profligates." -</p> -<p> -To this eloquence the Bishop returned blandly that he had not come to -deprive the people of their religion, but that he would be compelled to -deprive some of the priests of their parishes if they did not change -their way of life. -</p> -<p> -Father Martinez filled his glass and replied with perfect good humour. -"You cannot deprive me of mine, Bishop. Try it! I will organize my own -church. You can have your French priest of Taos, and I will have the -people!" -</p> -<p> -With this the Padre left the table and stood warming his back at the -fire, his cassock pulled up about his waist to expose his trousers to -the blaze. "You are a young man, my Bishop," he went on, rolling his big -head back and looking up at the well-smoked roof poles. "And you know -nothing about Indians or Mexicans. If you try to introduce European -civilization here and change our old ways, to interfere with the secret -dances of the Indians, let us say, or abolish the bloody rites of the -Penitentes, I foretell an early death for you. I advise you to study our -native traditions before you begin your reforms. You are among barbarous -people, my Frenchman, between two savage races. The dark things -forbidden by your Church are a part of Indian religion. You cannot -introduce French fashions here." -</p> -<p> -At this moment the student, Trinidad, got up quietly, and after an -obsequious bow to the Bishop, went with soft, escaping tread toward the -kitchen. When his brown skirt had disappeared through the door, Father -Latour turned sharply to his host. -</p> -<p> -"Martinez, I consider it very unseemly to talk in this loose fashion -before young men, especially a young man who is studying for the -priesthood. Furthermore, I cannot see why a young man of this calibre -should be encouraged to take orders. He will never hold a parish in my -diocese." -</p> -<p> -Padre Martinez laughed and showed his long, yellow teeth. Laughing did -not become him; his teeth were too large—distinctly vulgar. "Oh, -Trinidad will go to Arroyo Hondo as curate to his uncle, who is growing -old. He's a very devout fellow, Trinidad. You ought to see him in -Passion Week. He goes up to Abiquiu and becomes another man; carries the -heaviest crosses to the highest mountains, and takes more scourging than -anyone. He comes back here with his back so full of cactus spines that -the girls have to pick him like a chicken." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour was tired, and went to his room soon after supper. The -bed, upon examination, seemed clean and comfortable, but he felt -uncertain of its surroundings. He did not like the air of this house. -After he retired, the clatter of dish-washing and the giggling of women -across the <i>patio</i> kept him awake a long while; and when that ceased, -Father Martinez began snoring in some chamber near by. He must have left -his door open into the <i>patio</i>, for the adobe partitions were thick -enough to smother sound otherwise. The Padre snored like an enraged -bull, until the Bishop decided to go forth and find his door and close -it. He arose, lit his candle, and opened his own door in half-hearted -resolution. As the night wind blew into the room, a little dark shadow -fluttered from the wall across the floor; a mouse, perhaps. But no, it -was a bunch of woman's hair that had been indolently tossed into a -corner when some slovenly female toilet was made in this room. This -discovery annoyed the Bishop exceedingly. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -High Mass was at eleven the next morning, the parish priest officiating -and the Bishop in the Episcopal chair. He was well pleased with the -church of Taos. The building was clean and in good repair, the -congregation large and devout. The delicate lace, snowy linen, and -burnished brass on the altar told of a devoted Altar Guild. The boys who -served at the altar wore rich smocks of hand-made lace over their -scarlet surplices. The Bishop had never heard the Mass more impressively -sung than by Father Martinez. The man had a beautiful baritone voice, -and he drew from some deep well of emotional power. Nothing in the -service was slighted, every phrase and gesture had its full value. At -the moment of the Elevation the dark priest seemed to give his whole -force, his swarthy body and all its blood, to that lifting-up. Rightly -guided, the Bishop reflected, this Mexican might have been a great man. -He had an altogether compelling personality, a disturbing, mysterious -magnetic power. -</p> -<p> -After the confirmation service, Father Martinez had horses brought round -and took the Bishop out to see his farms and live-stock. He took him all -over his ranches down in the rich bottom lands between Taos and the -Indian pueblo which, as Father Latour knew, had come into his possession -from the seven Indians who were hanged. Martinez referred carelessly to -the Bent massacre as they rode along. He boasted that there had never -been trouble afoot in New Mexico that wasn't started in Taos. -</p> -<p> -They stopped just west of the pueblo a little before sunset,—a pueblo -very different from all the others the Bishop had visited; two large -communal houses, shaped like pyramids, gold-coloured in the afternoon -light, with the purple mountain lying just behind them. Gold-coloured -men in white burnouses came out on the stairlike flights of roofs, and -stood still as statues, apparently watching the changing light on the -mountain. There was a religious silence over the place; no sound at all -but the bleating of goats coming home through clouds of golden dust. -</p> -<p> -These two houses, the Padre told him, had been continuously occupied by -this tribe for more than a thousand years. Coronado's men found them -there, and described them as a superior kind of Indian, handsome and -dignified in bearing, dressed in deerskin coats and trousers like those -of Europeans. -</p> -<p> -Though the mountain was timbered, its lines were so sharp that it had -the sculptured look of naked mountains like the Sandias. The general -growth on its sides was evergreen, but the canyons and ravines were -wooded with aspens, so that the shape of every depression was painted on -the mountain-side, light green against the dark, like symbols; -serpentine, crescent, half-circles. This mountain and its ravines had -been the seat of old religious ceremonies, honey-combed with noiseless -Indian life, the repository of Indian secrets, for many centuries, the -Padre remarked. -</p> -<p> -"And some place in there, you may be sure, they keep Popé's estufa, but -no white man will ever see it. I mean the estufa where Popé sealed -himself up for four years and never saw the light of day, when he was -planning the revolt of 1680. I suppose you know all about that outbreak, -Bishop Latour?" -</p> -<p> -"Something, of course, from the Martyrology. But I did not know that it -originated in Taos." -</p> -<p> -"Haven't I just told you that all the trouble there ever was in New -Mexico originated in Taos?" boasted the Padre. "Popé was born a San -Juan Indian, but so was Napoleon a Corsican. He operated from Taos." -</p> -<p> -Padre Martinez knew his country, a country which had no written -histories. He gave the Bishop much the best account he had heard of the -great Indian revolt of 1680, which added such a long chapter to the -Martyrology of the New World, when all the Spaniards were killed or -driven out, and there was not one European left alive north of El Paso -del Norte. -</p> -<p> -That night after supper, as his host sat taking snuff, Father Latour -questioned him closely and learned something about the story of his -life. -</p> -<p> -Martinez was born directly under that solitary blue mountain on the -sky-line west of Taos, shaped like a pyramid with the apex sliced off, -in Abiquiu. It was one of the oldest Mexican settlements in the -territory, surrounded by canyons so deep and ranges so rugged that it -was practically cut off from intercourse with the outside world. Being -so solitary, its people were sombre in temperament, fierce and fanatical -in religion, celebrated the Passion Week by cross-bearings and bloody -scourgings. -</p> -<p> -Antonio José Martinez grew up there, without learning to read or write, -married at twenty, and lost his wife and child when he was twenty-three. -After his marriage he had learned to read from the parish priest, and -when he became a widower he decided to study for the priesthood. Taking -his clothes and the little money he got from the sale of his household -goods, he started on horseback for Durango, in Old Mexico. There he -entered the Seminary and began a life of laborious study. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop could imagine what it meant for a young man who had not -learned to read until long after adolescence, to undergo a severe -academic training. He found Martinez deeply versed, not only in the -Church Fathers, but in the Latin and Spanish classics. After six years -at the Seminary, Martinez had returned to his native Abiquiu as priest -of the parish church there. He was passionately attached to that old -village under the pyramidal mountain. All the while he had been in Taos, -half a lifetime now, he made periodic pilgrimages on horseback back to -Abiquiu, as if the flavour of his own yellow earth were medicine to his -soul. Naturally he hated the Americans. The American occupation meant -the end of men like himself. He was a man of the old order, a son of -Abiquiu, and his day was over. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -On his departure from Taos, the Bishop went out of his way to make a -call at Kit Carson's ranch house. Carson, he knew, was away buying -sheep, but Father Latour wished to see the Señora Carson to thank her -again for her kindness to poor Magdalena, and to tell her of the woman's -happy and devoted life with the Sisters in their school at Santa Fé. -</p> -<p> -The Señora received him with that quiet but unabashed hospitality which -is a common grace in Mexican households. She was a tall woman, slender, -with drooping shoulders and lustrous black eyes and hair. Though she -could not read, both her face and conversation were intelligent. To the -Bishop's thinking, she was handsome; her countenance showed that -discipline of life which he admired. She had a cheerful disposition, -too, and a pleasant sense of humour. It was possible to talk -confidentially to her. She said she hoped he had been comfortable in -Padre Martinez's house, with an inflection which told that she much -doubted it, and she laughed a little when he confessed that he had been -annoyed by the presence of Trinidad Lucero. -</p> -<p> -"Some people say he is Father Lucero's son," she said with a shrug. "But -I do not think so. More likely one of Padre Martinez's. Did you hear -what happened to him at Abiquiu last year, in Passion Week? He tried to -be like the Saviour, and had himself crucified. Oh, not with nails! He -was tied upon a cross with ropes, to hang there all night; they do that -sometimes at Abiquiu, it is a very old-fashioned place. But he is so -heavy that after he had hung there a few hours, the cross fell over with -him, and he was very much humiliated. Then he had himself tied to a post -and said he would bear as many stripes as our Saviour—six thousand, -as was revealed to St. Bridget. But before they had given him a hundred, he -fainted. They scourged him with cactus whips, and his back was so -poisoned that he was sick up there for a long while. This year they sent -word that they did not want him at Abiquiu, so he had to keep Holy Week -here, and everybody laughed at him." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour asked the Señora to tell him frankly whether she thought -he could put a stop to the extravagances of the Penitential Brotherhood. -She smiled and shook her head. "I often say to my husband, I hope you -will not try to do that. It would only set the people against you. The -old people have need of their old customs; and the young ones will go -with the times." -</p> -<p> -As the Bishop was taking his leave, she put into his saddle-bags a -beautiful piece of lace-work for Magdalena. "She will not be likely to -use it for herself, but she will be glad to have it to give to the -Sisters. That brutal man left her nothing. After he was hung, there was -nothing to sell but his gun and one burro. That was why he was going to -take the risk of killing two Padres for their mules—and for spite -against religion, maybe! Magdalena said he had often threatened to kill -the priest at Mora." -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -At Santa Fé the Bishop found Father Vaillant awaiting him. They had not -seen each other since Easter, and there were many things to be -discussed. The vigour and zeal of Bishop Latour's administration had -already been recognized at Rome, and he had lately received a letter -from Cardinal Fransoni, Prefect of the Propaganda, announcing that the -vicarate of Santa Fé had been formally raised to a diocese. By the same -long-delayed post came an invitation from the Cardinal, urgently -requesting Father Latour's presence at important conferences at the -Vatican during the following year. Though all these matters must be -taken up in their turn between the Bishop and his Vicar-General, Father -Joseph had undoubtedly come up from Albuquerque at this particular time -because of a lively curiosity to hear how the Bishop had been received -in Taos. -</p> -<p> -Seated in the study in their old cassocks, with the candles lighted on -the table between them, they spent a long evening. -</p> -<p> -"For the present," Father Latour remarked, "I shall do nothing to change -the curious situation at Taos. It is not expedient to interfere. The -church is strong, the people are devout. No matter what the conduct of -the priest has been, he has built up a strong organization, and his -people are devotedly loyal to him." -</p> -<p> -"But can he be disciplined, do you think?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, there is no question of discipline! He has been a little potentate -too long. His people would assuredly support him against a French -Bishop. For the present I shall be blind to what I do not like there." -</p> -<p> -"But Jean," Father Joseph broke out in agitation, "the man's life is an -open scandal, one hears of it everywhere. Only a few weeks ago I was -told a pitiful story of a Mexican girl carried off in one of the Indian -raids on the Costella valley. She was a child of eight when she was -carried away, and was fifteen when she was found and ransomed. During -all that time the pious girl had preserved her virginity by a succession -of miracles. She had a medal from the shrine of Our Lady of Guadelupe -tied round her neck, and she said such prayers as she had been taught. -Her chastity was threatened many times, but always some unexpected event -averted the catastrophe. After she was found and sent back to some -relatives living in Arroyo Hondo, she was so devout that she wished to -become a religious. She was debauched by this Martinez, and he married -her to one of his peons. She is now living on one of his farms." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Christobal told me that story," said the Bishop with a shrug. "But -Padre Martinez is getting too old to play the part of Don Juan much -longer. I do not wish to lose the parish of Taos in order to punish its -priest, my friend. I have no priest strong enough to put in his place. -You are the only man who could meet the situation there, and you are at -Albuquerque. A year from now I shall be in Rome, and there I hope to get -a Spanish missionary who will take over the parish of Taos. Only a -Spaniard would be welcomed there, I think." -</p> -<p> -"You are doubtless right," said Father Joseph. "I am often too hasty in -my judgments. I may do very badly for you while you are in Europe. For I -suppose I am to leave my dear Albuquerque, and come to Santa Fé while -you are gone?" -</p> -<p> -"Assuredly. They will love you all the more for lacking you awhile. I -hope to bring some more hardy Auvergnats back with me, young men from -our own Seminary, and I am afraid I must put one of them in Albuquerque. -You have been there long enough. You have done all that is necessary. I -need you here, Father Joseph. As it is now, one of us must ride seventy -miles whenever we wish to converse about anything." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sighed. "Ah, I supposed it would come! You will snatch -me from Albuquerque as you did from Sandusky. When I went there -everybody was my enemy, now everybody is my friend; therefore it is time -to go." Father Vaillant took off his glasses, folded them, and put them -in their case, which act always announced his determination to retire. -"So a year from now you will be in Rome. Well, I had rather be among my -people in Albuquerque, that I can say honestly. But Clermont,—there I -envy you. I should like to see my own mountains again. At least you will -see all my family and bring me word of them, and you can bring me the -vestments that my dear sister Philomène and her nuns have been making -for me these three years. I shall be very glad to have them." He rose, -and took up one of the candles. "And when you leave Clermont, Jean, put -a few chestnuts in your pocket for me!" -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE MISER</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N February Bishop Latour once more set out -on horseback over the Santa Fé trail, this time with Rome as his -objective. He was absent for nearly a year, and when he returned he -brought with him four young priests from his own Seminary of -Montferrand, and a Spanish priest, Father Taladrid, whom he had found in -Rome, and who was at once sent to Taos. At the Bishop's suggestion, -Padre Martinez formally resigned his parish, with the understanding that -he was still to celebrate Mass upon solemn occasions. Not only did he -avail himself of this privilege, but he continued to perform all -marriages and burial services and to dictate the lives of the -parishioners. Very soon he and Father Taladrid were at open war. -</p> -<p> -When the Bishop, unable to compose their differences, supported the new -priest, Father Martinez and his friend Father Lucero, of Arroyo Hondo, -mutinied; flatly refused to submit, and organized a church of their own. -This, they declared, was the old Holy Catholic Church of Mexico, while -the Bishop's church was an American institution. In both towns the -greater part of the population went over to the schismatic church, -though some pious Mexicans, in great perplexity, attended Mass at both. -Father Martinez printed a long and eloquent Proclamation (which very few -of his parishioners could read) giving an historical justification for -his schism, and denying the obligation of celibacy for the priesthood. -As both he and Father Lucero were well on in years, this particular -clause could be of little benefit to anyone in their new organization -except Trinidad. After the two old priests went off into schism, one of -their first solemn acts was to elevate Father Lucero's nephew to the -priesthood, and he acted as curate to them both, swinging back and forth -between Taos and Arroyo Hondo. -</p> -<p> -The schismatic church at least accomplished the rejuvenation of the two -rebellious priests at its head, and far and wide revived men's interest -in them,—though they had always furnished their people with plenty to -talk about. Ever since they were young men with adjoining parishes, they -had been friends, cronies, rivals, sometimes bitter enemies. But their -quarrels could never keep them apart for long. -</p> -<p> -Old Marino Lucero had not one trait in common with Martinez, except the -love of authority. He had been a miser from his youth, and lived down in -the sunken world of Arroyo Hondo in the barest poverty, though he was -supposed to be very rich. He used to boast that his house was as poor as -a burro's stable. His bed, his crucifix, and his bean-pot were his -furniture. He kept no live-stock but one poor mule, on which he rode -over to Taos to quarrel with his friend Martinez, or to get a solid dinner -when he was hungry. In his <i>casa</i> every day was Friday—unless -one of his neighbour women cooked a chicken and brought it in to him out -of pure compassion. For his people liked him. He was grasping, but not -oppressive, and he wrung more pesos out of Arroyo Seco and Questa than -out of his own arroyo. Thrift is such a rare quality among Mexicans that -they find it very amusing; his people loved to tell how he never bought -anything, but picked up old brooms after housewives had thrown them -away, and that he wore Padre Martinez's garments after the Padre would -have them no longer, though they were so much too big for him. One of -the priests' fiercest quarrels had come about because Martinez gave some -of his old clothes to a monk from Mexico who was studying at his house, -and who had not wherewithal to cover himself as winter came on. -</p> -<p> -The two priests had always talked shamelessly about each other. All -Martinez's best stories were about Lucero, and all Lucero's were about -Martinez. -</p> -<p> -"You see how it is," Padre Lucero would say to the young men at a -wedding party, "my way is better than old José Martinez's. His nose and -chin are getting to be close neighbours now, and a petticoat is not much -good to him any more. But I can still rise upright at the sight of a -dollar. With a new piece of money in my hand I am happier than ever; and -what can he do with a pretty girl but regret?" -</p> -<p> -Avarice, he assured them, was the one passion that grew stronger and -sweeter in old age. He had the lust for money as Martinez had for women, -and they had never been rivals in the pursuit of their pleasures. After -Trinidad was ordained and went to stay with his uncle, Father Lucero -complained that he had formed gross habits living with Martinez, and was -eating him out of house and home. Father Martinez told with delight how -Trinidad sponged upon the parish at Arroyo Hondo, and went about poking -his nose into one bean-pot after another. -</p> -<p> -When the Bishop could no longer remain deaf to the rebellion, he sent -Father Vaillant over to Taos to publish the warning for three weeks and -exhort the two priests to renounce their heresy. On the fourth Sunday -Father Joseph, who complained that he was always sent "<i>à fouetter les -chats</i>," solemnly read the letter in which the Bishop stripped Father -Martinez of the rights and privileges of the priesthood. On the -afternoon of the same day, he rode over to Arroyo Hondo, eighteen miles -away, and read a similar letter of excommunication against Father -Lucero. -</p> -<p> -Father Martinez continued at the head of his schismatic church until, -after a short illness, he died and was buried in schism, by Father -Lucero. Soon after this, Father Lucero himself fell into a decline. But -even after he was ailing he performed a feat which became one of the -legends of the country-side,—killed a robber in a midnight scuffle. -</p> -<p> -A wandering teamster who had been discharged from a wagon train for -theft, was picking up a living over in Taos and there heard the stories -about Father Lucero's hidden riches. He came to Arroyo Hondo to rob the -old man. Father Lucero was a light sleeper, and hearing stealthy sounds -in the middle of the night, he reached for the carving-knife he kept -hidden under his mattress and sprang upon the intruder. They began -fighting in the dark, and though the thief was a young man and armed, -the old priest stabbed him to death and then, covered with blood, ran -out to arouse the town. The neighbours found the Padre's chamber like a -slaughter-house, his victim hang dead beside the hole he had dug. They -were amazed at what the old man had been able to do. -</p> -<p> -But from the shock of that night Father Lucero never recovered. He -wasted away so rapidly that his people had the horse doctor come from -Taos to look at him. This veterinary was a Yankee who had been -successful in treating men as well as horses, but he said he could do -nothing for Father Lucero; he believed he had an internal tumour or a -cancer. -</p> -<p> -Padre Lucero died repentant, and Father Vaillant, who had pronounced his -excommunication, was the one to reconcile him to the Church. The Vicar -was in Taos on business for the Bishop, staying with Kit Carson and the -Señora. They were all sitting at supper one evening during a heavy -rain-storm, when a horseman rode up to the <i>portale</i>. Carson went out -to receive him. The visitor he brought in with him was Trinidad Lucero, who -took off his rubber coat and stood in a full-skirted cassock of Arroyo -Hondo make, a crucifix about his neck, seeming to fill the room with his -size and importance. After bowing ceremoniously to the Señora, he -addressed himself to Father Vaillant in his best English, speaking -slowly in his thick felty voice. -</p> -<p> -"I am the only nephew of Padre Lucero. My uncle is verra seek and soon -to die. She has vomit the blood." He dropped his eyes. -</p> -<p> -"Speak to me in your own language, man!" cried Father Joseph. "I can at -least do more with Spanish than you can with English. Now tell me what -you have to say of your uncle's condition." -</p> -<p> -Trinidad gave some account of his uncle's illness, repeating solemnly -the phrase, "She has vomit the blood," which he seemed to find -impressive. The sick man wished to see Father Vaillant, and begged that -he would come to him and give him the Sacrament. -</p> -<p> -Carson urged the Vicar to wait until morning, as the road down into "the -Hondo" would be badly washed by rain and dangerous to go over in the -dark. But Father Vaillant said if the road were bad he could go down on -foot. Excusing himself to the Señora Carson, he went to his room to put -on his riding-clothes and get his saddle-bags. Trinidad, upon -invitation, sat down at the empty place and made the most of his -opportunity. The host saddled Father Vaillant's mule, and the Vicar rode -away, with Trinidad for guide. -</p> -<p> -Not that he needed a guide to Arroyo Hondo, it was a place especially -dear to him, and he was always glad to find a pretext for going there. -How often he had ridden over there on fine days in summer, or in early -spring, before the green was out, when the whole country was pink and -blue and yellow, like a coloured map. -</p> -<p> -One approached over a sage-brush plain that appeared to run level and -unbroken to the base of the distant mountains; then without warning, one -suddenly found oneself upon the brink of a precipice, of a chasm in the -earth over two hundred feet deep, the sides sheer cliffs, but cliffs of -earth, not rock. Drawing rein at the edge, one looked down into a sunken -world of green fields and gardens, with a pink adobe town, at the bottom -of this great ditch. The men and mules walking about down there, or -plowing the fields, looked like the figures of a child's Noah's ark. -Down the middle of the arroyo, through the sunken fields and pastures, -flowed a rushing stream which came from the high mountains. Its original -source was so high, indeed, that by merely laying an open wooden trough -up the opposite side of the arroyo, the Mexicans conveyed the water to -the plateau at the top. This sluice was laid in sections that zigzagged -up the face of the cliff. Father Vaillant always stopped to watch the -water rushing up the side of the precipice like a thing alive; an -ever-ascending ladder of clear water, gurgling and clouding into silver -as it climbed. Only once before, he used to tell the natives, in Italy, -had he seen water run up hill like that. -</p> -<p> -The water thus diverted was but a tiny thread of the full creek; the -main stream ran down the arroyo over a white rock bottom, with green -willows and deep hay grass and brilliant wild flowers on its banks. -Evening primroses, the fireweed, and butterfly weed grew to a tropical -size and brilliance there among the sedges. -</p> -<p> -But this was the first time Father Vaillant had ever gone down into the -Hondo after dark, and at the edge of the cliff he decided not to put -Contento to so cruel a test. "He can do it," he said to Trinidad, "but I -will not make him." He dismounted and went on foot down the steep -winding trail. -</p> -<p> -They reached Father Lucero's house before midnight. Half the population -of the town seemed to be in attendance, and the place was lit up as if -for a festival. The sick man's chamber was full of Mexican women, -sitting about on the floor, wrapped in their black shawls, saying their -prayers with lighted candles before them. One could scarcely step for -the candles. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant beckoned to a woman he knew well, Conçeption Gonzales, -and asked her what was the meaning of this. She whispered that the dying -Padre would have it so. His sight was growing dim, and he kept calling -for more lights. All his life, Conçeption sighed, he had been so saving -of candles, and had mostly done with a pine splinter in the evenings. -</p> -<p> -In the corner, on the bed, Father Lucero was groaning and tossing, one -man rubbing his feet, and another wringing cloths out of hot water and -putting them on his stomach to dull the pain. Señora Gonzales whispered -that the sick man had been gnawing the sheets for pain; she had brought -over her best ones, and they were chewed to lacework across the top. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, "Get away from the bed a -little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles -blind me." -</p> -<p> -But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor, -the sick man called, "No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief -will come, and I will have nothing left." -</p> -<p> -The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat -down again. -</p> -<p> -Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked -nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They -burned up at Father Joseph,—great, black, glittering, distrustful -eyes. On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than -Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph's hand with a grip surprisingly -strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the -chest. -</p> -<p> -"Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that -the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to -hear." Father Lucero's voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his -parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. "Señor Vicario, -you remember Padre Martinez? You ought to, for you served him as badly -as you did me. Now listen:" -</p> -<p> -Father Lucero related that Martinez, before his death, had entrusted to -him a certain sum of money to be spent in masses for the repose of his -soul, these to be offered at his native church in Abiquiu. Lucero had -not used the money as he promised, but had buried it under the dirt -floor of this room, just below the large crucifix that hung on the wall -yonder. -</p> -<p> -At this point Father Vaillant again signalled to the women to withdraw, -but as they took up their candles, Father Lucero sat up in his -night-shirt and cried, "Stay as you are! Are you going to run away and -leave me with a stranger? I trust him no more than I do you! Oh, why did -God not make some way for a man to protect his own after death? Alive, I -can do it with my knife, old as I am. But after?"—— -</p> -<p> -The Señora Gonzales soothed Father Lucero, persuaded him to lie back -upon his pillows and tell them what he wanted them to do. He explained -that this money which he had taken in trust from Martinez was to be sent -to Abiquiu and used as the Padre had wished. Under the crucifix, and -under the floor beneath the bed on which he was lying, they would find -his own savings. One third of his hoard was for Trinidad. The rest was -to be spent in masses for his soul, and they were to be celebrated in -the old church of San Miguel in Santa Fé. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant assured him that all his wishes should be scrupulously -carried out, and now it was time for him to dismiss the cares of this -world and prepare his mind to receive the Sacrament. -</p> -<p> -"All in good time. But a man does not let go of this world so easily. -Where is Conçeption Gonzales? Come here, my daughter. See to it that -the money is taken up from under the floor while I am still in this -chamber, before my body is cold, that it is counted in the presence of -all these women, and the sum set down in writing." At this point, the -old man started, as with a new hope. "And Christobal, he is the man! -Christobal Carson must be here to count it and set it down. He is a just -man. Trinidad, you fool, why did you not bring Christobal?" -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant was scandalized. "Unless you compose yourself, Father -Lucero, and fix your thoughts upon Heaven, I shall refuse to administer -the Sacrament. In your present state of mind, it would be a sacrilege." -</p> -<p> -The old man folded his hands and closed his eyes in assent. Father -Vaillant went into the adjoining room to put on his cassock and stole, -and in his absence Conçeption Gonzales covered a small table by the bed -with one of her own white napkins and placed upon it two wax candles, -and a cup of water for the ministrant's hands. Father Vaillant came back -in his vestments, with his pyx and basin of holy water, and began -sprinkling the bed and the watchers, repeating the antiphon, <i>Asperges -me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor</i>. The women stole away, leaving their -lights upon the floor. Father Lucero made his confession, renouncing his -heresy and expressing contrition, after which he received the Sacrament. -</p> -<p> -The ceremony calmed the tormented man, and he lay quiet with his hands -folded on his breast. The women returned and sat murmuring prayers as -before. The rain drove against the window panes, the wind made a hollow -sound as it sucked down through the deep arroyo. Some of the watchers -were drooping from weariness, but not one showed any wish to go home. -Watching beside a death-bed was not a hardship for them, but a -privilege,—in the case of a dying priest it was a distinction. -</p> -<p> -In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social -importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs -ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul -made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness -through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there -was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he -alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and -on his features would fall some light or shadow from beyond. The "Last -Words" of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in -gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man and woman were -listened for and treasured by their neighbours and kinsfolk. These -sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and -pondered by those who must one day go the same road. -</p> -<p> -The stillness of the death chamber was suddenly broken when Trinidad -Lucero knelt down before the crucifix on the wall to pray. His uncle, -though all thought him asleep, began to struggle and cry out, "A thief! -Help, help!" Trinidad retired quickly, but after that the old man lay -with one eye open, and no one dared go near the crucifix. -</p> -<p> -About an hour before day-break the Padre's breathing became so painful -that two of the men got behind him and lifted his pillows. The women -whispered that his face was changing, and they brought their candles -nearer, kneeling close beside his bed. His eyes were alive and had -perception in them. He rolled his head to one side and lay looking -intently down into the candlelight, without blinking, while his -features sharpened. Several times his lips twitched back over his teeth. -The watchers held their breath, feeling sure that he would speak before -he passed,—and he did. After a facial spasm that was like a sardonic -smile, and a clicking of breath in his mouth, their Padre spoke like a -horse for the last time: -</p> -<p> -"<i>Comete tu cola, Martinez, comete tu cola</i>!" (Eat your tail, -Martinez, eat your tail!) Almost at once he died in a convulsion. -</p> -<p> -After day-break Trinidad went forth declaring (and the Mexican women -confirmed him) that at the moment of death Father Lucero had looked into -the other world and beheld Padre Martinez in torment. As long as the -Christians who were about that death-bed lived, the story was whispered -in Arroyo Hondo. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When the floor of the priest's house was taken up, according to his last -instructions, people came from as far as Taos and Santa Cruz and Mora to -see the buckskin bags of gold and silver coin that were buried beneath -it. Spanish coins, French, American, English, some of them very old. -When it was at length conveyed to a Government mint and examined, it was -valued at nearly twenty thousand dollars in American money. A great sum -for one old priest to have scraped together in a country parish down at -the bottom of a ditch. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap06"></a>BOOK SIX -<br><br> -<i>DOÑA ISABELLA</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>DON ANTONIO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">B</span>ISHOP LATOUR had one very keen worldly -ambition; to build in Santa Fé a cathedral which would be worthy of a -setting naturally beautiful. As he cherished this wish and meditated -upon it, he came to feel that such a building might be a continuation of -himself and his purpose, a physical body full of his aspirations after -he had passed from the scene. Early in his administration he began -setting aside something from his meagre resources for a cathedral fund. -In this he was assisted by certain of the rich Mexican <i>rancheros</i>, -but by no one so much as by Don Antonio Olivares. -</p> -<p> -Antonio Olivares was the most intelligent and prosperous member of a -large family of brothers and cousins, and he was for that time and place -a man of wide experience, a man of the world. He had spent the greater -part of his life in New Orleans and El Paso del Norte, but he returned -to live in Santa Fé several years after Bishop Latour took up his -duties there. He brought with him his American wife and a wagon train of -furniture, and settled down to spend his declining years in the old -ranch house just east of the town where he was born and had grown up. He -was then a man of sixty. In early manhood he had lost his first wife; -after he went to New Orleans he had married a second time, a Kentucky -girl who had grown up among her relatives in Louisiana. She was pretty -and accomplished, had been educated at a French convent, and had done -much to Europeanize her husband. The refinement of his dress and -manners, and his lavish style of living, provoked half-contemptuous envy -among his brothers and their friends. -</p> -<p> -Olivares's wife, Doña Isabella, was a devout Catholic, and at their -house the French priests were always welcome and were most cordially -entertained. The Señora Olivares had made a pleasant place of the -rambling adobe building, with its great courtyard and gateway, carved -joists and beams, fine herring-bone ceilings and snug fire-places. She -was a gracious hostess, and though no longer very young, she was still -attractive to the eye; a slight woman, spirited, quick in movement, with -a delicate blonde complexion which she had successfully guarded in -trying climates, and fair hair—a little silvered, and perhaps worn in -too many puffs and ringlets for the sharpening outline of her face. She -spoke French well, Spanish lamely, played the harp, and sang agreeably. -</p> -<p> -Certainly it was a great piece of luck for Father Latour and Father -Vaillant, who lived so much among peons and Indians and rough -frontiersmen, to be able to converse in their own tongue now and then -with a cultivated woman; to sit by that hospitable fireside, in rooms -enriched by old mirrors and engravings and upholstered chairs, where the -windows had clean curtains, and the sideboard and cupboards were stocked -with plate and Belgian glass. It was refreshing to spend an evening with -a couple who were interested in what was going on in the outside world, -to eat a good dinner and drink good wine, and listen to music. Father -Joseph, that man of inconsistencies, had a pleasing tenor voice, true -though not strong. Madame Olivares liked to sing old French songs with -him. She was a trifle vain, it must be owned, and when she sang at all, -insisted upon singing in three languages, never forgetting her husband's -favourites, "La Paloma" and "La Golandrina," and "My Nelly Was A Lady." -The negro melodies of Stephen Foster had already travelled to the -frontier, going along the river highways, not in print, but passed on -from one humble singer to another. -</p> -<p> -Don Antonio was a large man, heavy, full at the belt, a trifle bald, and -very slow of speech. But his eyes were lively, and the yellow spark in -them was often most perceptible when he was quite silent. It was -interesting to observe him after dinner, settled in one of his big -chairs from New Orleans, a cigar between his long golden-brown fingers, -watching his wife at her harp. -</p> -<p> -There was gossip about the lady in Santa Fé, of course, since she had -retained her beautiful complexion and her husband's devoted regard for -so many years. The Americans and the Olivares brothers said she dressed -much too youthfully, which was perhaps true, and that she had lovers in -New Orleans and El Paso del Norte. Her nephews-in-law went so far as to -declare that she was enamoured of the Mexican boy the Olivares had -brought up from San Antonio to play the banjo for them,—they both -loved music, and this boy, Pablo, was a magician with his instrument. All -sorts of stories went out from the kitchen; that Doña Isabella had a -whole chamber full of dresses so grand that she never wore them here at -all; that she took gold from her husband's pockets and hid it under the -floor of her room; that she gave him love potions and herb-teas to -increase his ardour. This gossip did not mean that her servants were -disloyal, but rather that they were proud of their mistress. -</p> -<p> -Olivares, who read the newspapers, though they were weeks old when he -got them, who liked cigars better than cigarettes, and French wine -better than whisky, had little in common with his younger brothers. Next -to his old friend Manuel Chavez, the two French priests were the men in -Santa Fé whose company he most enjoyed, and he let them see it. He was -a man who cherished his friends. He liked to call at the Bishop's house -to advise him about the care of his young orchard, or to leave a bottle -of home-made cherry brandy for Father Joseph. It was Olivares who -presented Father Latour with the silver hand-basin and pitcher and -toilet accessories which gave him so much satisfaction all the rest of -his life. There were good silversmiths among the Mexicans of Santa Fé, -and Don Antonio had his own toilet-set copied in hammered silver for his -friend. Doña Isabella once remarked that her husband always gave Father -Vaillant something good for the palate, and Father Latour something good -for the eye. -</p> -<p> -This couple had one child, a daughter, the Señorita Inez, born long ago -and still unmarried. Indeed, it was generally understood that she would -never marry. Though she had not taken the veil, her life was that of a -nun. She was very plain and had none of her mother's social graces, but -she had a beautiful contralto voice. She sang in the Cathedral choir in -New Orleans, and taught singing in a convent there. She came to visit -her parents only once after they settled in Santa Fé, and she was a -somewhat sombre figure in that convivial household. Doña Isabella -seemed devotedly attached to her, but afraid of displeasing her. While -Inez was there, her mother dressed very plainly, pinned back the little -curls that hung over her right ear, and the two women went to church -together all day long. -</p> -<p> -Antonio Olivares was deeply interested in the Bishop's dream of a -cathedral. For one thing, he saw that Father Latour had set his heart on -building one, and Olivares was the sort of man who liked to help a -friend accomplish the desire of his heart. Furthermore, he had a deep -affection for his native town, he had travelled and seen fine churches, -and he wished there might some day be one in Santa Fé. Many a night he -and Father Latour talked of it by the fire; discussed the site, the -design, the building stone, the cost and the grave difficulties of -raising money. It was the Bishop's hope to begin work upon the building -in 1860, ten years after his appointment to the Bishopric. One night, at -a long-remembered New Year's party in his house, Olivares announced in -the presence of his guests that before the new year was gone he meant to -give to the Cathedral fund a sum sufficient to enable Father Latour to -carry out his purpose. -</p> -<p> -That supper party at the Olivares' was memorable because of this pledge, -and because it marked a parting of old friends. Doña Isabella was -entertaining the officers at the Post, two of whom had received orders -to leave Santa Fé. The popular Commandant was called back to -Washington, the young lieutenant of cavalry, an Irish Catholic, lately -married and very dear to Father Latour, was to be sent farther west. -(Before the next New Year's Day came round he was killed in Indian -warfare on the plains of Arizona.) -</p> -<p> -But that night the future troubled nobody; the house was full of light -and music, the air warm with that simple hospitality of the frontier, -where people dwell in exile, far from their kindred, where they lead -rough lives and seldom meet together for pleasure. Kit Carson, who -greatly admired Madame Olivares, had come the two days' journey from -Taos to be present that night, and brought along his gentle half-breed -daughter, lately home from a convent school in St. Louis. On this -occasion he wore a handsome buckskin coat, embroidered in silver, with -brown velvet cuffs and collar. The officers from the Fort were in dress -uniform, the host as usual wore a broadcloth frock-coat. His wife was in -a hoop-skirt, a French dress from New Orleans, all covered with little -garlands of pink satin roses. The military ladies came out to the -Olivares place in an army wagon, to keep their satin shoes from the mud. -The Bishop had put on his violet vest, which he seldom wore, and Father -Vaillant had donned a fresh new cassock, made by the loving hands of his -sister Philomène, in Riom. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had used to feel a little ashamed that Joseph kept his -sister and her nuns so busy making cassocks and vestments for him; but -the last time he was in France he came to see all this in another light. -When he was visiting Mother Philomène's convent, one of the younger -Sisters had confided to him what an inspiration it was to them, living -in retirement, to work for the far-away missions. She told him also how -precious to them were Father Vaillant's long letters, letters in which -he told his sister of the country, the Indians, the pious Mexican women, -the Spanish martyrs of old. These letters, she said, Mother Philomène -read aloud in the evening. The nun took Father Latour to a window that -jutted out and looked up the narrow street to where the wall turned at -an angle, cutting off further view. "Look," she said, "after the Mother -has read us one of those letters from her brother, I come and stand in -this alcove and look up our little street with its one lamp, and just -beyond the turn there, is New Mexico; all that he has written us of -those red deserts and blue mountains, the great plains and the herds of -bison, and the canyons more profound than our deepest mountain gorges. I -can feel that I am there, my heart beats faster, and it seems but a -moment until the retiring-bell cuts short my dreams." The Bishop went -away believing that it was good for these Sisters to work for Father -Joseph. -</p> -<p> -To-night, when Madame Olivares was complimenting Father Vaillant on the -sheen of his poplin and velvet, for some reason Father Latour recalled -that moment with the nun in her alcove window, her white face, her -burning eyes, and sighed. -</p> -<p> -After supper was over and the toasts had been drunk, the boy Pablo was -called in to play for the company while the gentlemen smoked. The banjo -always remained a foreign instrument to Father Latour; he found it more -than a little savage. When this strange yellow boy played it, there was -softness and languor in the wire strings—but there was also a kind -of madness; the recklessness, the call of wild countries which all these -men had felt and followed in one way or another. Through clouds of cigar -smoke, the scout and the soldiers, the Mexican <i>rancheros</i> and the -priests, sat silently watching the bent head and crouching shoulders of -the banjo player, and his seesawing yellow hand, which sometimes lost -all form and became a mere whirl of matter in motion, like a patch of -sand-storm. -</p> -<p> -Observing them thus in repose, in the act of reflection, Father Latour -was thinking how each of these men not only had a story, but seemed to -have become his story. Those anxious, far-seeing blue eyes of Carson's, -to whom could they belong but to a scout and trail-breaker? Don Manuel -Chavez, the handsomest man of the company, very elegant in velvet and -broadcloth, with delicately cut, disdainful features,—one had only to -see him cross the room, or to sit next him at dinner, to feel the -electric quality under his cold reserve; the fierceness of some -embitterment, the passion for danger. -</p> -<p> -Chavez boasted his descent from two Castilian knights who freed the city -of Chavez from the Moors in 1160. He had estates in the Pecos and in the -San Mateo mountains, and a house in Santa Fé, where he hid himself -behind his beautiful trees and gardens. He loved the natural beauties of -his country with a passion, and he hated the Americans who were blind to -them. He was jealous of Carson's fame as an Indian-fighter, declaring -that he had seen more Indian warfare before he was twenty than Carson -would ever see. He was easily Carson's rival as a pistol shot. With the -bow and arrow he had no rival; he had never been beaten. No Indian had -ever been known to shoot an arrow as far as Chavez. Every year parties -of Indians came up to the Villa to shoot with him for wagers. His house -and stables were full of trophies. He took a cool pleasure in stripping -the Indians of their horses or silver or blankets, or whatever they had -put up on their man. He was proud of his skill with Indian weapons; he -had acquired it in a hard school. -</p> -<p> -When he was a lad of sixteen Manuel Chavez had gone out with a party of -Mexican youths to hunt Navajos. In those days, before the American -occupation, "hunting Navajos" needed no pretext, it was a form of sport. -A company of Mexicans would ride west to the Navajo country, raid a few -sheep camps, and come home bringing flocks and ponies and a bunch of -prisoners, for every one of whom they received a large bounty from the -Mexican Government. It was with such a raiding party that the boy Chavez -went out for spoil and adventure. -</p> -<p> -Finding no Indians abroad, the young Mexicans pushed on farther than -they had intended. They did not know that it was the season when all the -roving Navajo bands gather at the Canyon de Chelly for their religious -ceremonies, and they rode on impetuously until they came out upon the -rim of that mysterious and terrifying canyon itself, then swarming with -Indians. They were immediately surrounded, and retreat was impossible. -They fought on the naked sandstone ledges that overhang that gulf. Don -José Chavez, Manuel's older brother, was captain of the party, and was -one of the first to fall. The company of fifty were slaughtered to a -man. Manuel was the fifty-first, and he survived. With seven arrow -wounds, and one shaft clear through his body, he was left for dead in a -pile of corpses. -</p> -<p> -That night, while the Navajos were celebrating their victory, the boy -crawled along the rocks until he had high boulders between him and the -enemy, and then started eastward on foot. It was summer, and the heat of -that red sandstone country is intense. His wounds were on fire. But he -had the superb vitality of early youth. He walked for two days and -nights without finding a drop of water, covering a distance of sixty odd -miles, across the plain, across the mountain, until he came to the -famous spring on the other side, where Fort Defiance was afterward -built. There he drank and bathed his wounds and slept. He had had no -food since the morning before the fight; near the spring he found some -large cactus plants, and slicing away the spines with his hunting-knife, -he filled his stomach with the juicy pulp. -</p> -<p> -From here, still without meeting a human creature, he stumbled on until -he reached the San Mateo mountain, north of Laguna. In a mountain valley -he came upon a camp of Mexican shepherds, and fell unconscious. The -shepherds made a litter of saplings and their sheepskin coats and -carried him into the village of Cebolleta, where he lay delirious for -many days. Years afterward, when Chavez came into his inheritance, he -bought that beautiful valley in the San Mateo mountain where he had sunk -unconscious under two noble oak trees. He built a house between those -twin oaks, and made a fine estate there. -</p> -<p> -Never reconciled to American rule, Chavez lived in seclusion when he was -in Santa Fé. At the first rumour of an Indian outbreak, near or far, he -rode off to add a few more scalps to his record. He distrusted the new -Bishop because of his friendliness toward Indians and Yankees. Besides, -Chavez was a Martinez man. He had come here to-night only in compliment -to Señora Olivares; he hated to spend an evening among American -uniforms. -</p> -<p> -When the banjo player was exhausted, Father Joseph said that as for him, -he would like a little drawing-room music, and he led Madame Olivares to -her harp. She was very charming at her instrument; the pose suited her -tip-tilted canary head, and her little foot and white arms. -</p> -<p> -This was the last time the Bishop heard her sing "La Paloma" for her -admiring husband, whose eyes smiled at her even when his heavy face -seemed asleep. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Olivares died on Septuagesima Sunday—fell over by his own fire-place -when he was lighting the candles after supper, and the banjo boy was -sent running for the Bishop. Before midnight two of the Olivares -brothers, half drunk with brandy and excitement, galloped out of Santa -Fé, on the road to Albuquerque, to employ an American lawyer. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE LADY</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>NTONIO OLIVARES'S funeral was the most -solemn and magnificent ever seen in Santa Fé, but Father Vaillant was -not there. He was off on a long missionary journey to the south, and did -not reach home until Madame Olivares had been a widow for some weeks. He -had scarcely got off his riding-boots when he was called into Father -Latour's study to see her lawyer. -</p> -<p> -Olivares had entrusted the management of his affairs to a young Irish -Catholic, Boyd O'Reilly, who had come out from Boston to practise law in -the new Territory. There were no steel safes in Santa Fé at that time, -but O'Reilly had kept Olivares's will in his strong-box. The document -was brief and clear: Antonio's estate amounted to about two hundred -thousand dollars in American money (a considerable fortune in those -days). The income therefrom was to be enjoyed by "my wife, Isabella -Olivares, and her daughter, Inez Olivares," during their lives, and -after their decease his property was to go to the Church, to the Society -for the Propagation of the Faith. The codicil, in favour of the -Cathedral fund, had, unfortunately, never been added to the will. -</p> -<p> -The young lawyer explained to Father Vaillant that the Olivares brothers -had retained the leading legal firm of Albuquerque and were contesting -the will. Their point of attack was that Señorita Inez was too old to -be the daughter of the Señora Olivares. Don Antonio had been a -promiscuous lover in his young days, and his brothers held that Inez was -the offspring of some temporary attachment, and had been adopted by -Doña Isabella. O'Reilly had sent to New Orleans for an attested copy of -the marriage record of the Olivares couple, and the birth certificate of -Señorita Inez. But in Kentucky, where the Señora was born, no birth -records were kept; there was no document to prove the age of Isabella -Olivares, and she could not be persuaded to admit her true age. It was -generally believed in Santa Fé that she was still in her early forties, -in which case she would not have been more than six or eight years old -at the date when Inez was born. In reality the lady was past fifty, but -when O'Reilly had tried to persuade her to admit this in court, she -simply refused to listen to him. He begged the Bishop and the Vicar to -use their influence with her to this end. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour shrank from interfering in so delicate a matter, but -Father Vaillant saw at once that it was their plain duty to protect the -two women and, at the same time, secure the rights of the Propaganda. -Without more ado he threw on his old cloak over his cassock, and the -three men set off through the red mud to the Olivares hacienda in the -hills east of the town. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph had not been to the Olivares' house since the night of the -New Year's party, and he sighed as he approached the place, already -transformed by neglect. The big gate was propped open by a pole because -the iron hook was gone, the courtyard was littered with rags and meat -bones which the dogs had carried there and no one had taken away. The -big parrot cage, hanging in the <i>portale</i>, was filthy, and the birds -were squalling. When O'Reilly rang the bell at the outer gate, Pablo, -the banjo player, came running out with tousled hair and a dirty shirt -to admit the visitors. He took them into the long living-room, which was -empty and cold, the fire-place dark, the hearth unswept. Chairs and -window-sills were deep in red dust, the glass panes dirty, and streaked -as if by tear-drops. On the writing-table were empty bottles and sticky -glasses and cigar ends. In one corner stood the harp in its green cover. -</p> -<p> -Pablo asked the Fathers to be seated. His mistress was staying in bed, -he said, and the cook had burnt her hand, and the other maids were lazy. -He brought wood and laid a fire. -</p> -<p> -After some time, Doña Isabella entered, dressed in heavy mourning, her -face very white against the black, and her eyes red. The curls about her -neck and ears were pale, too—quite ashen. -</p> -<p> -After Father Vaillant had greeted her and spoken: consoling words, the -young lawyer began once more gently to explain to her the difficulties -that confronted them, and what they must do to defeat the action of the -Olivares family. She sat submissively, touching her eyes and nose with -her little lace handkerchief, and clearly not even trying to understand -a word of what he said to her. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph soon lost patience and himself approached the widow. "You -understand, my child," he began briskly, "that your husband's brothers -are determined to disregard his wishes, to defraud you and your -daughter, and, eventually, the Church. This is no time for childish -vanity. To prevent this outrage to your husband's memory, you must -satisfy the court that you are old enough to be the mother of -Mademoiselle Inez. You must resolutely declare your true age; -fifty-three, is it not?" -</p> -<p> -Doña Isabella became pallid with fright. She shrank into one end of the -deep sofa, but her blue eyes focused and gathered light, as she became -intensely, rigidly animated in her corner,—her back against the wall, -as it were. -</p> -<p> -"Fifty-three!" she cried in a voice of horrified amazement. "Why, I -never heard of anything so outrageous! I was forty-two my last birthday. -It was in December, the fourth of December. If Antonio were here, he -would tell you! And he wouldn't let you scold me and talk about business -to me, either, Father Joseph. He never let anybody talk about business -to me!" She hid her face in her little handkerchief and began to cry. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour checked his impetuous Vicar, and sat down on the sofa -beside Madame Olivares, feeling very sorry for her and speaking very -gently. "Forty-two to your friends, dear Madame Olivares, and to the -world. In heart and face you are younger than that. But to the Law and -the Church there must be a literal reckoning. A formal statement in -court will not make you any older to your friends; it will not add one -line to your face. A woman, you know, is as old as she looks." -</p> -<p> -"That's very sweet of you to say, Bishop Latour," the lady quavered, -looking up at him with tearbright eyes. "But I never could hold up my -head again. Let the Olivares have that old money. I don't want it." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sprang up and glared down at her as if he could put -common sense into her drooping head by the mere intensity of his gaze. -"Four hundred thousand pesos, Señora Isabella!" he cried. "Ease and -comfort for you and your daughter all the rest of your lives. Would you -make your daughter a beggar? The Olivares will take everything." -</p> -<p> -"I can't help it about Inez," she pleaded. "Inez means to go into the -convent anyway. And I don't care about the money. <i>Ah, mon père, je -voudrais mieux être jeune et mendiante, que n'être que vieille et -riche, certes, oui</i>!" -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph caught her icy cold hand. "And have you a right to defraud -the Church of what is left to it in your trust? Have you thought of the -consequences to yourself of such a betrayal?" -</p> -<p> -Father Latour glanced sternly at his Vicar. "<i>Assez</i>," he said -quietly. He took the little hand Father Joseph had released and bent -over it, kissing it respectfully. "We must not press this any further. -We must leave this to Madame Olivares and her own conscience. I believe, -my daughter, you will come to realize that this sacrifice of your vanity -would be for your soul's peace. Looking merely at the temporal aspect of -the case, you would find poverty hard to bear. You would have to live -upon the Olivares's charity, would you not? I do not wish to see this -come about. I have a selfish interest; I wish you to be always your -charming self and to make a little <i>poésie</i> in life for us here. -We have not much of that." -</p> -<p> -Madame Olivares stopped crying. She raised her head and sat drying her -eyes. Suddenly she took hold of one of the buttons on the Bishop's -cassock and began twisting it with nervous fingers. -</p> -<p> -"Father," she said timidly, "what is the youngest I could possibly be, -to be Inez's mother?" -</p> -<p> -The Bishop could not pronounce the verdict; he hesitated, flushed, then -passed it on to O'Reilly with an open gesture of his fine white hand. -</p> -<p> -"Fifty-two, Señora Olivares," said the young man respectfully. "If I -can get you to admit that, and stick to it, I feel sure we will win our -case." -</p> -<p> -"Very well, Mr. O'Reilly." She bowed her head. As her visitors rose, she -sat looking down at the dust-covered rugs. "Before everybody!" she -murmured, as if to herself. -</p> -<p> -When they were tramping home, Father Joseph said that as for him, he -would rather combat the superstitions of a whole Indian pueblo than the -vanity of one white woman. -</p> -<p> -"And I would rather do almost anything than go through such a scene -again," said the Bishop with a frown. "I don't think I ever assisted at -anything so cruel." -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Boyd O'Reilly defeated the Olivares brothers and won his case. The -Bishop would not go to the court hearing, but Father Vaillant was there, -standing in the malodorous crowd (there were no chairs in the court -room), and his knees shook under him when the young lawyer, with the -fierceness born of fright, poked his finger at his client and said: -</p> -<p> -"Señora Olivares, you are fifty-two years of age, are you not?" -</p> -<p> -Madame Olivares was swathed in mourning, her face a streak of shadowed -white between folds of black veil. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, sir." The crape barely let it through. -</p> -<p> -The night after the verdict was pronounced, Manuel Chavez, with several -of Antonio's old friends, called upon the widow to congratulate her. -Word of their intention had gone about the town and put others in the -mood to call at a house that had been closed to visitors for so long. A -considerable company gathered there that evening, including some of the -military people, and several hereditary enemies of the Olivares -brothers. -</p> -<p> -The cook, stimulated by the sight of the long sala full of people once -more, hastily improvised a supper. Pablo put on a white shirt and a -velvet jacket, and began to carry up from the cellar his late master's -best whisky and sherry, and quarts of champagne. (The Mexicans are very -fond of sparkling wines. Only a few years before this, an American -trader who had got into serious political trouble with the Mexican -military authorities in Santa Fé, regained their confidence and -friendship by presenting them with a large wagon shipment of -champagne—three thousand, three hundred and ninety-two bottles, -indeed!) -</p> -<p> -This hospitable mood came upon the house suddenly, nothing had been -prepared beforehand. The wineglasses were full of dust, but Pablo wiped -them out with the shirt he had just taken off, and without instructions -from anyone he began gliding about with a tray full of glasses, which he -afterward refilled many times, taking his station at the sideboard. -Even Doña Isabella drank a little champagne; when she had sipped one -glass with the young Georgia captain, she could not refuse to take -another with their nearest neighbour, Ferdinand Sanchez, always a true -friend to her husband. Everyone was gay, the servants and the guests, -everything sparkled like a garden after a shower. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour and Father Vaillant, having heard nothing of this -spontaneous gathering of friends, set off at eight o'clock to make a -call upon the brave widow. When they entered the courtyard, they were -astonished to hear music within, and to see light streaming from the -long row of windows behind the <i>portale</i>. Without stopping to knock, -they opened the door into the <i>sala</i>. Many candles were burning. -Señors were standing about in long frock-coats buttoned over full figures. -O'Reilly and a group of officers from the Fort surrounded the sideboard, -where Pablo, with a white napkin wrapped showily about his wrist, was -pouring champagne. From the other end of the room sounded the high -tinkle of the harp, and Doña Isabella's voice: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"<i>Listen to the mocking-bird</i>,</span><br> -<span class="i2"><i>Listen to the mocking-bird!</i>"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -The priests waited in the doorway until the song was finished, then went -forward to pay their respects to the hostess. She was wearing the -unrelieved white that grief permitted, and the yellow curls were bobbing -as of old—three behind her right ear, one over either temple, and a -little row across the back of her neck. As she saw the two black figures -approaching, she dropped her arms from the harp, took her satin toe from -the pedal, and rose, holding out a hand to each. Her eyes were bright, -and her face beamed with affection for her spiritual fathers. But her -greeting was a playful reproach, uttered loud enough to be heard above -the murmur of conversing groups: -</p> -<p> -"I never shall forgive you, Father Joseph, nor you either, Bishop -Latour, for that awful lie you made me tell in court about my age!" -</p> -<p> -The two churchmen bowed amid laughter and applause. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap07"></a>BOOK SEVEN -<br><br> -<i>THE GREAT DIOCESE</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>THE MONTH OF MARY</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Bishop's work was sometimes assisted, -often impeded, by external events. -</p> -<p> -By the Gadsden Purchase, executed three years after Father Latour came -to Santa Fé, the United States took over from Mexico a great territory -which now forms southern New Mexico and Arizona. The authorities at Rome -notified Father Latour that this new territory was to be annexed to his -diocese, but that as the national boundary lines often cut parishes in -two, the boundaries of Church jurisdiction must be settled by conference -with the Mexican Bishops of Chihuahua and Sonora. Such conferences would -necessitate a journey of nearly four thousand miles. As Father Vaillant -remarked, at Rome they did not seem to realize that it was no easy -matter for two missionaries on horseback to keep up with the march of -history. -</p> -<p> -The question hung fire for some years, the subject of voluminous -correspondence. At last, in 1858, Father Vaillant was sent to arrange -the debated boundaries with the Mexican Bishops. He started in the -autumn and spent the whole winter on the road, going from El Paso del -Norte west to Tucson, on to Santa Magdalena and Guaymas, a seaport town -on the Gulf of California, and did some seafaring on the Pacific before -he turned homeward. -</p> -<p> -On his return trip he was stricken with malarial fever, resulting from -exposure and bad water, and lay seriously ill in a cactus desert in -Arizona. Word of his illness came to Santa Fé by an Indian runner, and -Father Latour and Jacinto rode across New Mexico and half of Arizona, -found Father Vaillant, and brought him back by easy stages. -</p> -<p> -He was ill in the Bishop's house for two months. This was the first -spring that he and Father Latour had both been there at the same time, -to enjoy the garden they had laid out soon after they first came to -Santa Fé. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -It was the month of Mary and the month of May. Father Vaillant was lying -on an army cot, covered with blankets, under the grape arbour in the -garden, watching the Bishop and his gardener at work in the vegetable -plots. The apple trees were in blossom, the cherry blooms had gone by. -The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the -soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air -one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot -had a reflection of blue sky in it. -</p> -<p> -This garden had been laid out six years ago, when the Bishop brought his -fruit trees (then dry switches) up from St. Louis in wagons, along with -the blessed Sisters of Loretto, who came to found the Academy of Our -Lady of Light. The school was now well established, reckoned a benefit -to the community by Protestants as well as Catholics, and the trees were -bearing. Cuttings from them were already yielding fruit in many Mexican -gardens. While the Bishop was away on that first trip to Baltimore, -Father Joseph had, in addition to his many official duties, found time -to instruct their Mexican housekeeper, Fructosa, in cookery. Later -Bishop Latour took in hand Fructosa's husband, Tranquilino, and trained -him as a gardener. They had boldly planned for the future; the ground -behind the church, between the Bishop's house and the Academy, they laid -out as a spacious orchard and kitchen-garden. Ever since then the Bishop -had worked on it, planting and pruning. It was his only recreation. -</p> -<p> -A line of young poplars linked the Episcopal courtyard with the school. -On the south, against the earth wall, was the one row of trees they had -found growing there when they first came,—old, old tamarisks, with -twisted trunks. They had been so neglected, left to fight for life in -such hard, sun-baked, burro-trodden ground, that their trunks had the -hardness of cypress. They looked, indeed, like very old posts, well -seasoned and polished by time, miraculously endowed with the power to -burst into delicate foliage and flowers, to cover themselves with long -brooms of lavender-pink blossom. -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph had come to love the tamarisk above all trees. It had been -the companion of his wanderings. All along his way through the deserts -of New Mexico and Arizona, wherever he had come upon a Mexican -homestead, out of the sun-baked earth, against the sun-baked adobe -walls, the tamarisk waved its feathery plumes of bluish green. The -family burro was tied to its trunk, the chickens scratched under it, the -dogs slept in its shade, the washing was hung on its branches. Father -Latour had often remarked that this tree seemed especially designed in -shape and colour for the adobe village. The sprays of bloom which adorn -it are merely another shade of the red earth walls, and its fibrous -trunk is full of gold and lavender tints. Father Joseph respected the -Bishop's eye for such things, but himself he loved it merely because it -was the tree of the people, and was like one of the family in every -Mexican household. -</p> -<p> -This was a very happy season for Father Vaillant. For years he had not -been able properly to observe this month which in his boyhood he had -selected to be the holy month of the year for him, dedicated to the -contemplation of his Gracious Patroness. In his former missionary life, -on the Great Lakes, he used always to go into retreat at this season. -But here there was no time for such things. Last year, in May, he had -been on his way to the Hopi Indians, riding thirty miles a day; -marrying, baptizing, confessing as he went, making camp in the -sand-hills at night. His devotions had been constantly interrupted by -practical considerations. -</p> -<p> -But this year, because of his illness, the month of Mary he had been -able to give to Mary; to Her he had consecrated his waking hours. At -night he sank to sleep with the sense of Her protection. In the morning -when he awoke, before he had opened his eyes, he was conscious of a -special sweetness in the air,—Mary, and the month of May. <i>Alma -Mater redemptoris</i>! Once more he had been able to worship with the -ardour of a young religious, for whom religion is pure personal -devotion, unalloyed by expediency and the benumbing cares of a -missionary's work. Once again this had been his month; his Patroness had -given it to him, the season that had always meant so much in his -religious life. -</p> -<p> -He smiled to remember a time long ago, when he was a young curate in -Cendre, in the Puy-de-Dôm; how he had planned a season of special -devotion to the Blessed Virgin for May, and how the old priest to whom -he was assistant had blasted his hopes by cold disapproval. The old man -had come through the Terror, had been trained in the austerity of those -days of the persecution of the clergy, and he was not untouched by -Jansenism. Young Father Joseph bore his rebuke with meekness, and went -sadly to his own chamber. There he took his rosary and spent the entire -day in prayer. "<i>Not according to my desires, but if it is for thy -glory, grant me this boon, O Mary, my hope</i>." In the evening of that -same day the old pastor sent for him, and unsolicited granted him the -request he had so sternly denied in the morning. How joyfully Father -Joseph had written all this to his sister Philomène, then a pupil with -the nuns of the Visitation in their native Riom, begging her to make him -a quantity of artificial flowers for his May altar. How richly she had -responded!—and she rejoiced no less than he that his May devotions -were so largely attended, especially by the young people of the parish, in -whom a notable increase of piety was manifest. Father Vaillant's had -been a close-knit family—losing their mother while they were yet -children had brought the brothers and sisters the closer together—and -with this sister, Philomène, he had shared all his hopes and desires -and his deepest religious life. -</p> -<p> -Ever since then, all the most important events in his own history had -occurred in the blessed month when this sinful and sullied world puts on -white as if to commemorate the Annunciation, and becomes, for a little, -lovely enough to be in truth the Bride of Christ. It was in May that he -had been given grace to perform the hardest act of his life; to leave -his country, to part from his dear sister and his father (under what sad -circumstances!), and to start for the New World to take up a -missionary's labours. That parting was not a parting, but an escape—a -running away, a betrayal of family trust for the sake of a higher trust. -He could smile at it now, but at the time it had been terrible enough. -The Bishop, thinning carrots yonder, would remember. It was because of -what Father Latour had been to him in that hour, indeed, that Father -Joseph was here in a garden in Santa Fé. He would never have left his -dear Sandusky when the newly appointed Bishop asked him to share his -hardships, had he not said to himself: "Ah, now it is he who is torn by -perplexity! I will be to him now what he was to me that day when we -stood by the road-side, waiting for the <i>diligence</i> to Paris, and my -purpose broke, and he saved me." -</p> -<p> -That time came back upon Father Vaillant now so keenly that he wiped a -little moisture from his eyes,—(he was quickly moved, after the way -of sick people) and he cleared his glasses and called: -</p> -<p> -"Father Latour, it is time for you to rest your back. You have been -stooping over a great while." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop came and sat down in a wheelbarrow that stood at the edge of -the arbour. -</p> -<p> -"I have been thinking that I shall no longer pray for your speedy -recovery, Joseph. The only way I can keep my Vicar within call is to -have him sick." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph smiled. -</p> -<p> -"You are not in Santa Fé a great deal yourself, my Bishop." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I shall be here this summer, and I hope to keep you with me. This -year I want you to see my lotus flowers. Tranquilino will let the water -into my lake this afternoon." The lake was a little pond in the middle -of the garden, into which Tranquilino, clever with water, like all -Mexicans, had piped a stream from the Santa Fé creek flowing near at -hand. "Last summer, while you were away," the Bishop continued, "we had -more than a hundred lotus blossoms floating on that little lake. And all -from five bulbs that I put into my valise in Rome." -</p> -<p> -"When do they blossom?" -</p> -<p> -"They begin in June, but they are at their best in July." -</p> -<p> -"Then you must hurry them up a little. For with my Bishop's permission, -I shall be gone in July." -</p> -<p> -"So soon? And why?" -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant moved uneasily under his blankets. "To hunt for lost -Catholics, Jean! Utterly lost Catholics, down in your new territory, -towards Tucson. There are hundreds of poor families down there who have -never seen a priest. I want to go from house to house this time, to -every little settlement. They are full of devotion and faith, and it has -nothing to feed upon but the most mistaken superstitions. They remember -their prayers all wrong. They cannot read, and since there is no one to -instruct them, how can they get right? They are like seeds, full of -germination but with no moisture. A mere contact is enough to make them -a living part of the Church. The more I work with the Mexicans, the more -I believe it was people like them our Saviour bore in mind when He said, -<i>Unless ye become as little children</i>. He was thinking of people who -are not clever in the things of this world, whose minds are not upon gain -and worldly advancement. These poor Christians are not thrifty like our -country people at home; they have no veneration for property, no sense -of material values. I stop a few hours in a village, I administer the -sacraments and hear confessions, I leave in every house some little -token, a rosary or a religious picture, and I go away feeling that I -have conferred immeasurable happiness, and have released faithful souls -that were shut away from God by neglect. -</p> -<p> -"Down near Tucson a Pima Indian convert once asked me to go off into the -desert with him, as he had something to show me. He took me into a place -so wild that a man less accustomed to these things might have mistrusted -and feared for his life. We descended into a terrifying canyon of black -rock, and there in the depths of a cave, he showed me a golden chalice, -vestments and cruets, all the paraphernalia for celebrating Mass. His -ancestors had hidden these sacred objects there when the mission was -sacked by Apaches, he did not know how many generations ago. The secret -had been handed down in his family, and I was the first priest who had -ever come to restore to God his own. To me, that is the situation in a -parable. The Faith, in that wild frontier, is like a buried treasure; -they guard it, but they do not know how to use it to their soul's -salvation. A word, a prayer, a service, is all that is needed to set -free those souls in bondage. I confess I am covetous of that mission. I -desire to be the man who restores these lost children to God. It will be -the greatest happiness of my life." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop did not reply at once to this appeal. At last he said -gravely, "You must realize that I have need of you here, Father Joseph. -My duties are too many for one man." -</p> -<p> -"But you do not need me so much as they do!" Father Joseph threw off his -coverings and sat up in his cassock, putting his feet to the ground. -"Any one of our good French priests from Montferrand can serve you here. -It is work that can be done by intelligence. But down there it is work -for the heart, for a particular sympathy, and none of our new priests -understand those poor natures as I do. I have almost become a Mexican! I -have learned to like <i>chili colorado</i> and mutton fat. Their foolish -ways no longer offend me, their very faults are dear to me. I am <i>their -man</i>!" -</p> -<p> -"Ah, no doubt, no doubt! But I must insist upon your lying down for the -present." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant, flushed and excited, dropped back upon his pillows, and -the Bishop took a short turn through the garden,—to the row of -tamarisk trees and back. He walked slowly, with even, unhesitating pace, -with that slender, unrigid erectness, and the fine carriage of head, -which always made him seem master of the situation. No one would have -guessed that a sharp struggle was going on within him. Father Joseph's -impassioned request had spoiled a cherished plan, and brought Father -Latour a bitter personal disappointment. There was but one thing to -do,—and before he reached the tamarisks he had done it. He broke -off a spray of the dry lilac-coloured flowers to punctuate and seal, as -it were, his renunciation. He returned with the same easy, deliberate -tread, and stood smiling beside the army cot. -</p> -<p> -"Your feeling must be your guide in this matter, Joseph. I shall put no -obstacles in your way. A certain care for your health I must insist -upon, but when you are quite well, you must follow the duty that calls -loudest." -</p> -<p> -They were both silent for a few moments. Father Joseph closed his eyes -against the sunlight, and Father Latour stood lost in thought, drawing -the plume of tamarisk blossom absently through his delicate, rather -nervous fingers. His hands had a curious authority, but not the calmness -so often seen in the hands of priests; they seemed always to be -investigating and making firm decisions. -</p> -<p> -The two friends were roused from their reflections by a frantic beating -of wings. A bright flock of pigeons swept over their heads to the far -end of the garden, where a woman was just emerging from the gate that -led into the school grounds; Magdalena, who came every day to feed the -doves and to gather flowers. The Sisters had given her charge of the -altar decoration of the school chapel for this month, and she came for -the Bishop's apple blossoms and daffodils. She advanced in a whirlwind -of gleaming wings, and Tranquilino dropped his spade and stood watching -her. At one moment the whole flock of doves caught the light in such a -way that they all became invisible at once, dissolved in light and -disappeared as salt dissolves in water. The next moment they flashed -around, black and silver against the sun. They settled upon Magdalena's -arms and shoulders, ate from her hand. When she put a crust of bread -between her lips, two doves hung in the air before her face, stirring -their wings and pecking at the morsel. A handsome woman she had grown to -be, with her comely figure and the deep claret colour under the golden -brown of her cheeks. -</p> -<p> -"Who would think, to look at her now, that we took her from a place -where every vileness of cruelty and lust was practised!" murmured Father -Vaillant. "Not since the days of early Christianity has the Church been -able to do what it can here." -</p> -<p> -"She is but twenty-seven or -eight years old. I wonder whether she ought -not to marry again," said the Bishop thoughtfully. "Though she seems so -contented, I have sometimes surprised a tragic shadow in her eyes. Do -you remember the terrible look in her eyes when we first saw her?" -</p> -<p> -"Can I ever forget it! But her very body has changed. She was then a -shapeless, cringing creature. I thought her half-witted. No, no! She has -had enough of the storms of this world. Here she is safe and happy." -Father Vaillant sat up and called to her. "Magdalena, Magdalena, my -child, come here and talk to us for a little. Two men grow lonely when -they see nobody but each other." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>DECEMBER NIGHT</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER VAILLANT had been absent in Arizona -since midsummer, and it was now December. Bishop Latour had been going -through one of those periods of coldness and doubt which, from his -boyhood, had occasionally settled down upon his spirit and made him feel -an alien, wherever he was. He attended to his correspondence, went on -his rounds among the parish priests, held services at missions that were -without pastors, superintended the building of the addition to the -Sisters' school: but his heart was not in these things. -</p> -<p> -One night about three weeks before Christmas he was lying in his bed, -unable to sleep, with the sense of failure clutching at his heart. His -prayers were empty words and brought him no refreshment. His soul had -become a barren field. He had nothing within himself to give his priests -or his people. His work seemed superficial, a house built upon the -sands. His great diocese was still a heathen country. The Indians -travelled their old road of fear and darkness, battling with evil omens -and ancient shadows. The Mexicans were children who played with their -religion. -</p> -<p> -As the night wore on, the bed on which the Bishop lay became a bed of -thorns; he could bear it no longer. Getting up in the dark, he looked -out of the window and was surprised to find that it was snowing, that -the ground was already lightly covered. The full moon, hidden by veils -of cloud, threw a pale phosphorescent luminousness over the heavens, and -the towers of the church stood up black against this silvery fleece. -Father Latour felt a longing to go into the church to pray; but instead -he lay down again under his blankets. Then, realizing that it was the -cold of the church he shrank from, and despising himself, he rose again, -dressed quickly, and went out into the court, throwing on over his -cassock that faithful old cloak that was the twin of Father Vaillant's. -</p> -<p> -They had bought the cloth for those coats in Paris, long ago, when they -were young men staying at the Seminary for Foreign Missions in the rue -du Bac, preparing for their first voyage to the New World. The cloth had -been made up into caped riding-cloaks by a German tailor in Ohio, and -lined with fox fur. Years afterward, when Father Latour was about to -start on his long journey in search of his Bishopric, that same tailor -had made the cloaks over and relined them with squirrel skins, as more -appropriate for a mild climate. These memories and many others went -through the Bishop's mind as he wrapped the trusty garment about him and -crossed the court to the sacristy, with the big iron key in his hand. -</p> -<p> -The court was white with snow, and the shadows of walls and buildings -stood out sharply in the faint light from the moon muffled in vapour. In -the deep doorway of the sacristy he saw a crouching figure—a woman, -he made out, and she was weeping bitterly. He raised her up and took her -inside. As soon as he had lit a candle, he recognized her, and could -have guessed her errand. -</p> -<p> -It was an old Mexican woman, called Sada, who was slave in an American -family. They were Protestants, very hostile to the Roman Church, and -they did not allow her to go to Mass or to receive the visits of a -priest. She was carefully watched at home,—but in winter, when the -heated rooms of the house were desirable to the family, she was put to -sleep in a woodshed. To-night, unable to sleep for the cold, she had -gathered courage for this heroic action, had slipped out through the -stable door and come running up an alley-way to the House of God to -pray. Finding the front doors of the church fastened, she had made her -way into the Bishop's garden and come round to the sacristy, only to -find that, too, shut against her. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop stood holding the candle and watching her face while she -spoke her few words; a dark brown peon face, worn thin and sharp by life -and sorrow. It seemed to him that he had never seen pure goodness shine -out of a human countenance as it did from hers. He saw that she had no -stockings under her shoes,—the cast-off rawhides of her -master,—and beneath her frayed black shawl was only a thin calico -dress, covered with patches. Her teeth struck together as she stood -trying to control her shivering. With one movement of his free hand the -Bishop took the furred cloak from his shoulders and put it about her. -This frightened her. She cowered under it, murmuring, "Ah, no, no, -Padre!" -</p> -<p> -"You must obey your Padre, my daughter. Draw that cloak about you, and -we will go into the church to pray." -</p> -<p> -The church was utterly black except for the red spark of the sanctuary -lamp before the high altar. Taking her hand, and holding the candle -before him, he led her across the choir to the Lady Chapel. There he -began to light the tapers before the Virgin. Old Sada fell on her knees -and kissed the floor. She kissed the feet of the Holy Mother, the -pedestal on which they stood, crying all the while. But from the working -of her face, from the beautiful tremors which passed over it, he knew -they were tears of ecstasy. -</p> -<p> -"Nineteen years, Father; nineteen years since I have seen the holy -things of the altar!" -</p> -<p> -"All that is passed, Sada. You have remembered the holy things in your -heart. We will pray together." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop knelt beside her, and they began, <i>O Holy Mary, Queen of -Virgins</i>.... -</p> -<p> -More than once Father Vaillant had spoken to the Bishop of this aged -captive. There had been much whispering among the devout women of the -parish about her pitiful case. The Smiths, with whom she lived, were -Georgia people, who had at one time lived in El Paso del Norte, and they -had taken her back to their native State with them. Not long ago some -disgrace had come upon this family in Georgia, they had been forced to -sell all their negro slaves and flee the State. The Mexican woman they -could not sell because they had no legal title to her, her position was -irregular. Now that they were back in a Mexican country, the Smiths were -afraid their charwoman might escape from them and find asylum among her -own people, so they kept strict watch upon her. They did not allow her -to go outside their own <i>patio</i>, not even to accompany her mistress to -market. -</p> -<p> -Two women of the Altar Guild had been so bold as to go into the -<i>patio</i> to talk with Sada when she was washing clothes, but they -had been rudely driven away by the mistress of the house. Mrs. Smith had -come running out into the court, half dressed, and told them that if -they had business at her <i>casa</i> they were to come in by the front -door, and not sneak in through the stable to frighten a poor silly -creature. When they said they had come to ask Sada to go to Mass with -them, she told them she had got the poor creature out of the clutches of -the priests once, and would see to it that she did not fall into them -again. -</p> -<p> -Even after that rebuff a very pious neighbour woman had tried to say a -word to Sada through the alley door of the stable, where she was -unloading wood off the burro. But the old servant had put her finger to -her lips and motioned the visitor away, glancing back over her shoulder -the while with such an expression of terror that the intruder hastened -off, surmising that Sada would be harshly used if she were caught -speaking to anyone. The good woman went immediately to Father Vaillant -with this story, and he had consulted the Bishop, declaring that -something ought to be done to secure the consolations of religion for -the bond-woman. But the Bishop replied that the time was not yet; for -the present it was inexpedient to antagonize these people. The Smiths -were the leaders of a small group of low-caste Protestants who took -every occasion to make trouble for the Catholics. They hung about the -door of the church on festival days with mockery and loud laughter, -spoke insolently to the nuns in the street, stood jeering and -blaspheming when the procession went by on Corpus Christi Sunday. There -were five sons in the Smith family, fellows of low habits and evil -tongues. Even the two younger boys, still children, showed a vicious -disposition. Tranquilino had repeatedly driven these two boys out of the -Bishop's garden, where they came with their lewd companions to rob the -young pear trees or to speak filth against the priests. -</p> -<p> -When they rose from their knees, Father Latour told Sada he was glad to -know that she remembered her prayers so well. -</p> -<p> -"Ah, Padre, every night I say my Rosary to my Holy Mother, no matter -where I sleep!" declared the old creature passionately, looking up into -his face and pressing her knotted hands against her breast. -</p> -<p> -When he asked if she had her beads with her, she was confused. She kept -them tied with a cord around her waist, under her clothes, as the only -place she could hide them safely. -</p> -<p> -He spoke soothingly to her. "Remember this, Sada; in the year to come, -and during the Novena before Christmas, I will not forget to pray for -you whenever I offer the Blessed Sacrament of the Mass. Be at rest in -your heart, for I will remember you in my silent supplications before -the altar as I do my own sisters and my nieces." -</p> -<p> -Never, as he afterward told Father Vaillant, had it been permitted him -to behold such deep experience of the holy joy of religion as on that -pale December night. He was able to feel, kneeling beside her, the -preciousness of the things of the altar to her who was without -possessions; the tapers, the image of the Virgin, the figures of the -saints, the Cross that took away indignity from suffering and made pain -and poverty a means of fellowship with Christ. Kneeling beside the much -enduring bondwoman, he experienced those holy mysteries as he had done -in his young manhood. He seemed able to feel all it meant to her to know -that there was a Kind Woman in Heaven, though there were such cruel ones -on earth. Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's -hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness. Only -a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer. -</p> -<p> -Not often, indeed, had Jean Marie Latour come so near to the Fountain of -all Pity as in the Lady Chapel that night; the pity that no man born of -woman could ever utterly cut himself off from; that was for the murderer -on the scaffold, as it was for the dying soldier or the martyr on the -rack. The beautiful concept of Mary pierced the priest's heart like a -sword. -</p> -<p> -"<i>O Sacred Heart of Mary</i>!" she murmured by his side, and he felt how -that name was food and raiment, friend and mother to her. He received -the miracle in her heart into his own, saw through her eyes, knew that -his poverty was as bleak as hers. When the Kingdom of Heaven had first -come into the world, into a cruel world of torture and slaves and -masters, He who brought it had said, "<i>And whosoever is least among you, -the same shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven</i>." This church was -Sada's house, and he was a servant in it. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop heard the old woman's confession. He blessed her and put both -hands upon her head. When he took her down the nave to let her out of -the church, Sada made to lift his cloak from her shoulders. He -restrained her, telling her she must keep it for her own, and sleep in -it at night. But she slipped out of it hurriedly; such a thought seemed -to terrify her. "No, no, Father. If they were to find it on me!" More -than that, she did not accuse her oppressors. But as she put it off, she -stroked the old garment and patted it as if it were a living thing that -had been kind to her. -</p> -<p> -Happily Father Latour bethought him of a little silver medal, with a -figure of the Virgin, he had in his pocket. He gave it to her, telling -her that it had been blessed by the Holy Father himself. Now she would -have a treasure to hide and guard, to adore while her watchers slept. -Ah, he thought, for one who cannot read—or think—the Image, the -physical form of Love! -</p> -<p> -He fitted the great key into its lock, the door swung slowly back on its -wooden hinges. The peace without seemed all one with the peace in his -own soul. The snow had stopped, the gauzy clouds that had ribbed the -arch of heaven were now all sunk into one soft white fog bank over the -Sangre de Cristo mountains. The full moon shone high in the blue vault, -majestic, lonely, benign. The Bishop stood in the doorway of his church, -lost in thought, looking at the line of black footprints his departing -visitor had left in the wet scurf of snow. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>SPRING IN THE NAVAJO COUNTRY</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER VAILLANT was away in Arizona all -winter. When the first hint of spring was in the air, the Bishop and -Jacinto set out on a long ride across New Mexico, to the Painted Desert -and the Hopi villages. After they left Oraibi, the Bishop rode several -days to the south, to visit a Navajo friend who had lately lost his only -son, and who had paid the Bishop the compliment of sending word of the -boy's death to him at Santa Fé. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour had known Eusabio a long while, had met him soon after he -first came to his new diocese. The Navajo was in Santa Fé at that time, -assisting the military officers to quiet an outbreak of the never-ending -quarrel between his people and the Hopis. Ever since then the Bishop and -the Indian chief had entertained an increasing regard for each other. -Eusabio brought his son all the way to Santa Fé to have the Bishop -baptize him,—that one beloved son who had died during this last -winter. -</p> -<p> -Though he was ten years younger than Father Latour, Eusabio was one of -the most influential men among the Navajo people, and one of the richest -in sheep and horses. In Santa Fé and Albuquerque he was respected for -his intelligence and authority, and admired for his fine presence. He -was extremely tall, even for a Navajo, with a face like a Roman -general's of Republican times. He always dressed very elegantly in -velvet and buckskin rich with bead and quill embroidery, belted with -silver, and wore a blanket of the finest wool and design. His arms, -under the loose sleeves of his shirt, were covered with silver -bracelets, and on his breast hung very old necklaces of wampum and -turquoise and coral—Mediterranean coral, that had been left in the -Navajo country by Coronado's captains when they passed through it on -their way to discover the Hopi villages and the Grand Canyon. -</p> -<p> -Eusabio lived, with his relatives and dependents, in a group of hogans -on the Colorado Chiquito; to the west and south and north his kinsmen -herded his great flocks. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour and Jacinto arrived at the cluster of booth-like cabins -during a high sand-storm, which circled about them and their mules like -snow in a blizzard and all but obliterated the landscape. The Navajo -came out of his house and took possession of Angelica by her bridle-bit. -At first he did not open his lips, merely stood holding Father Latour's -very fine white hand in his very fine dark one, and looked into his face -with a message of sorrow and resignation in his deep-set, eagle eyes. A -wave of feeling passed over his bronze features as he said slowly: -</p> -<p> -"My friend has come." -</p> -<p> -That was all, but it was everything; welcome, confidence, appreciation. -</p> -<p> -For his lodging the Bishop was given a solitary hogan, a little apart -from the settlement. Eusabio quickly furnished it with his best skins -and blankets, and told his guest that he must tarry a few days there and -recover from his fatigue. His mules were tired, the Indian said, the -Padre himself looked weary, and the way to Santa Fé was long. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop thanked him and said he would stay three days; that he had -need for reflection. His mind had been taken up with practical matters -ever since he left home. This seemed a spot where a man might get his -thoughts together. The river, a considerable stream at this time of the -year, wound among mounds and dunes of loose sand which whirled through -the air all day in the boisterous spring winds. The sand banked up -against the hogan the Bishop occupied, and filtered through chinks in -the walls, which were made of saplings plastered with clay. -</p> -<p> -Beside the river was a grove of tall, naked cottonwoods—trees of -great antiquity and enormous size—so large that they seemed to -belong to a bygone age. They grew far apart, and their strange twisted -shapes must have come about from the ceaseless winds that bent them to -the east and scoured them with sand, and from the fact that they lived -with very little water,—the river was nearly dry here for most of -the year. The trees rose out of the ground at a slant, and forty or -fifty feet above the earth all these white, dry trunks changed their -direction, grew back over their base line. Some split into great forks -which arched down almost to the ground; some did not fork at all, but -the main trunk dipped downward in a strong curve, as if drawn by a -bowstring; and some terminated in a thick coruscation of growth, like a -crooked palm tree. They were all living trees, yet they seemed to be of -old, dead, dry wood, and had very scant foliage. High up in the forks, -or at the end of a preposterous length of twisted bough, would burst a -faint bouquet of delicate green leaves—out of all keeping with the -great lengths of seasoned white trunk and branches. The grove looked -like a winter wood of giant trees, with clusters of mistletoe growing -among the bare boughs. -</p> -<p> -Navajo hospitality is not intrusive. Eusabio made the Bishop understand -that he was glad to have him there, and let him alone. Father Latour -lived for three days in an almost perpetual sand-storm—cut off from -even this remote little Indian camp by moving walls and tapestries of -sand. He either sat in his house and listened to the wind, or walked -abroad under those aged, wind-distorted trees, muffled in an Indian -blanket, which he kept drawn up over his mouth and nose. Since his -arrival he had undertaken to decide whether he would be justified in -recalling Father Vaillant from Tucson. The Vicar's occasional letters, -brought by travellers, showed that he was highly content where he was, -restoring the old mission church of St. Xavier del Bac, which he -declared to be the most beautiful church on the continent, though it had -been neglected for more than two hundred years. -</p> -<p> -Since Father Vaillant went away the Bishop's burdens had grown heavier -and heavier. The new priests from Auvergne were all good men, faithful -and untiring in carrying out his wishes; but they were still strangers -to the country, timid about making decisions, and referred every -difficulty to their Bishop. Father Latour needed his Vicar, who had so -much tact with the natives, so much sympathy with all their -short-comings. When they were together, he was always curbing Father -Vaillant's hopeful rashness—but left alone, he greatly missed that -very quality. And he missed Father Vaillant's companionship—why -not admit it? -</p> -<p> -Although Jean Marie Latour and Joseph Vaillant were born in neighbouring -parishes in the Puy-de-Dôm, as children they had not known each other. -The Latours were an old family of scholars and professional men, while -the Vaillants were people of a much humbler station in the provincial -world. Besides, little Joseph had been away from home much of the time, -up on the farm in the Volvic mountains with his grandfather, where the -air was especially pure, and the country quiet salutary for a child of -nervous temperament. The two boys had not come together until they were -Seminarians at Montferrand, in Clermont. -</p> -<p> -When Jean Marie was in his second year at the Seminary, he was standing -on the recreation ground one day at the opening of the term, looking -with curiosity at the new students. In the group, he noticed one of -peculiarly unpromising appearance; a boy of nineteen who was undersized, -very pale, homely in feature, with a wart on his chin and tow-coloured -hair that made him look like a German. This boy seemed to feel his -glance, and came up at once, as if he had been called. He was apparently -quite unconscious of his homeliness, was not at all shy, but intensely -interested in his new surroundings. He asked Jean Latour his name, where -he came from, and his father's occupation. Then he said with great -simplicity: -</p> -<p> -"My father is a baker, the best in Riom. In fact, he's a remarkable -baker." -</p> -<p> -Young Latour was amused, but expressed polite appreciation of this -confidence. The queer lad went on to tell him about his brother and his -aunt, and his clever little sister, Philomène. He asked how long Latour -had been at the Seminary. -</p> -<p> -"Have you always intended to take orders? So have I, but I very nearly -went into the army instead." -</p> -<p> -The year previous, after the surrender of Algiers, there had been a -military review at Clermont, a great display of uniforms and military -bands, and stirring speeches about the glory of French arms. Young -Joseph Vaillant had lost his head in the excitement, and had signed up -for a volunteer without consulting his father. He gave Latour a vivid -account of his patriotic emotions, of his father's displeasure, and his -own subsequent remorse. His mother had wished him to become a priest. -She died when he was thirteen, and ever since then he had meant to carry -out her wish and to dedicate his life to the service of the Divine -Mother. But that one day, among the bands and the uniforms, he had -forgotten everything but his desire to serve France. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly young Vaillant broke off, saying that he must write a letter -before the hour was over, and tucking up his gown he ran away at full -speed. Latour stood looking after him, resolved that he would take this -new boy under his protection. There was something about the baker's son -that had given their meeting the colour of an adventure; he meant to -repeat it. In that first encounter, he chose the lively, ugly boy for -his friend. It was instantaneous. Latour himself was much cooler and -more critical in temper; hard to please, and often a little grey in -mood. -</p> -<p> -During their Seminary years he had easily surpassed his friend in -scholarship, but he always realized that Joseph excelled him in the -fervour of his faith. After they became missionaries, Joseph had learned -to speak English, and later, Spanish, more readily than he. To be sure, -he spoke both languages very incorrectly at first, but he had no vanity -about grammar or refinement of phrase. To communicate with peons, he was -quite willing to speak like a peon. -</p> -<p> -Though the Bishop had worked with Father Joseph for twenty-five years -now, he could not reconcile the contradictions of his nature. He simply -accepted them, and, when Joseph had been away for a long while, realized -that he loved them all. His Vicar was one of the most truly spiritual -men he had ever known, though he was so passionately attached to many of -the things of this world. Fond as he was of good eating and drinking, he -not only rigidly observed all the fasts of the Church, but he never -complained about the hardness and scantiness of the fare on his long -missionary journeys. Father Joseph's relish for good wine might have -been a fault in another man. But always frail in body, he seemed to need -some quick physical stimulant to support his sudden flights of purpose -and imagination. Time and again the Bishop had seen a good dinner, a -bottle of claret, transformed into spiritual energy under his very eyes. -From a little feast that would make other men heavy and desirous of -repose, Father Vaillant would rise up revived, and work for ten or -twelve hours with that ardour and thoroughness which accomplished such -lasting results. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop had often been embarrassed by his Vicar's persistence in -begging for the parish, for the Cathedral fund and the distant missions. -Yet for himself, Father Joseph was scarcely acquisitive to the point of -decency. He owned nothing in the world but his mule, Contento. Though he -received rich vestments from his sister in Riom, his daily apparel was -rough and shabby. The Bishop had a large and valuable library, at least, -and many comforts for his house. There were his beautiful skins and -blankets—presents from Eusabio and his other Indian friends. The -Mexican women, skilled in needlework and lace-making and hem-stitching, -presented him with fine linen for his person, his bed, and his table. He -had silver plate, given him by the Olivares and others of his rich -parishioners. But Father Vaillant was like the saints of the early -Church, literally without personal possessions. -</p> -<p> -In his youth, Joseph had wished to lead a life of seclusion and solitary -devotion; but the truth was, he could not be happy for long without -human intercourse. And he liked almost everyone. In Ohio, when they used -to travel together in stagecoaches, Father Latour had noticed that every -time a new passenger pushed his way into the already crowded stage, -Joseph would look pleased and interested, as if this were an agreeable -addition—whereas he himself felt annoyed, even if he concealed it. -The ugly conditions of life in Ohio had never troubled Joseph. The hideous -houses and churches, the ill-kept farms and gardens, the slovenly, -sordid aspect of the towns and country-side, which continually depressed -Father Latour, he seemed scarcely to perceive. One would have said he -had no feeling for comeliness or grace. Yet music was a passion with -him. In Sandusky it had been his delight to spend evening after evening -with his German choir-master, training the young people to sing Bach -oratorios. -</p> -<p> -Nothing one could say of Father Vaillant explained him. The man was much -greater than the sum of his qualities. He added a glow to whatever kind -of human society he was dropped down into. A Navajo hogan, some abjectly -poor little huddle of Mexican huts, or a company of Monsignori and -Cardinals at Rome—it was all the same. -</p> -<p> -The last time the Bishop was in Rome he had heard an amusing story from -Monsignor Mazzucchi, who had been secretary to Gregory XVI at the time -when Father Vaillant went from his Ohio mission for his first visit to -the Holy City. -</p> -<p> -Joseph had stayed in Rome for three months, living on about forty cents -a day and leaving nothing unseen. He several times asked Mazzucchi to -secure him a private audience with the Pope. The secretary liked the -missionary from Ohio; there was something abrupt and lively and naïf -about him, a kind of freshness he did not often find in the priests who -flocked to Rome. So he arranged an interview at which only the Holy -Father and Father Vaillant and Mazzucchi were present. -</p> -<p> -The missionary came in, attended by a chamberlain who carried two great -black valises full of objects to be blessed—instead of one, as was -customary. After his reception, Father Joseph began to pour out such a -vivid account of his missions and brother missionaries, that both the -Holy Father and the secretary forgot to take account of time, and the -audience lasted three times as long as such interviews were supposed to -last. Gregory XVI, that aristocratic and autocratic prelate, who stood -so consistently on the wrong side in European politics, and was the -enemy of Free Italy, had done more than any of his predecessors to -propagate the Faith in remote parts of the world. And here was a -missionary after his own heart. Father Vaillant asked for blessings for -himself, his fellow priests, his missions, his Bishop. He opened his big -valises like pedlars' packs, full of crosses, rosaries, prayer-books, -medals, breviaries, on which he begged more than the usual blessing. The -astonished chamberlain had come and gone several times, and Mazzucchi at -last reminded the Holy Father that he had other engagements. Father -Vaillant caught up his two valises himself, the chamberlain not being -there at the moment, and thus laden, was bowing himself backward out of -the presence, when the Pope rose from his chair and lifted his hand, not -in benediction but in salutation, and called out to the departing -missionary, as one man to another, "<i>Coraggio, Americano</i>!" -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Bishop Latour found his Navajo house favourable for reflection, for -recalling the past and planning the future. He wrote long letters to his -brother and to old friends in France. The hogan was isolated like a -ship's cabin on the ocean, with the murmuring of great winds about it. -There was no opening except the door, always open, and the air without -had the turbid yellow light of sand-storms. All day long the sand came -in through the cracks in the walls and formed little ridges on the earth -floor. It rattled like sleet upon the dead leaves of the tree-branch -roof. This house was so frail a shelter that one seemed to be sitting in -the heart of a world made of dusty earth and moving air. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b> -<br><br> -<b>EUSABIO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>N the third day of his visit with Eusabio, -the Bishop wrote a somewhat formal letter of recall to his Vicar, and -then went for his daily walk in the desert. He stayed out until sunset, -when the wind fell and the air cleared, to a crystal sharpness. As he -was returning, still a mile or more up the river, he heard the deep -sound of a cottonwood drum, beaten softly. He surmised that the sound -came from Eusabio's house, and that his friend was at home. -</p> -<p> -Retracing his steps to the settlement, Father Latour found Eusabio -seated beside his doorway, singing in the Navajo language and beating -softly on one end of his long drum. Before him two very little Indian -boys, about four and five years old, were dancing to the music, on the -hard beaten ground. Two women, Eusabio's wife and sister, looked on from -the deep twilight of the hut. -</p> -<p> -The little boys did not notice the stranger's approach. They were -entirely engrossed in their occupation, their faces serious, their -chocolate-coloured eyes half closed. The Bishop stood watching the -flowing, supple movements of their arms and shoulders, the sure rhythm -of their tiny moccasined feet, no larger than cottonwood leaves, as -without a word of instruction they followed the irregular and -strangely-accented music. Eusabio himself wore an expression of -religious gravity. He sat with the drum between his knees, his broad -shoulders bent forward; a crimson <i>banda</i> covered his forehead to hold -his black hair. The silver on his dark wrists glittered as he stroked -the drum-head with a stick or merely tapped it with his fingers. When he -finished the song he was singing, he rose and introduced the little -boys, his nephews, by their Indian names, Eagle Feather and Medicine -Mountain, after which he nodded to them in dismissal. They vanished into -the house. Eusabio handed the drum to his wife and walked away with his -guest. -</p> -<p> -"Eusabio," said the Bishop, "I want to send a letter to Father Vaillant, -at Tucson. I will send Jacinto with it, provided you can spare me one of -your people to accompany me back to Santa Fé." -</p> -<p> -"I myself will ride with you to the Villa," said Eusabio. The Navajos -still called the capital by its old name. -</p> -<p> -Accordingly, on the following morning, Jacinto was dispatched southward, -and Father Latour and Eusabio, with their pack-mule, rode to the east. -</p> -<p> -The ride back to Santa Fé was something under four hundred miles. The -weather alternated between blinding sand-storms and brilliant sunlight. -The sky was as full of motion and change as the desert beneath it was -monotonous and still,—and there was so much sky, more than at sea, -more than anywhere else in the world. The plain was there, under one's -feet, but what one saw when one looked about was that brilliant blue -world of stinging air and moving cloud. Even the mountains were mere -ant-hills under it. Elsewhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here -the earth was the floor of the sky. The landscape one longed for when -one was far away, the thing all about one, the world one actually lived -in, was the sky, the sky! -</p> -<p> -Travelling with Eusabio was like travelling with the landscape made -human. He accepted chance and weather as the country did, with a sort of -grave enjoyment. He talked little, ate little, slept anywhere, preserved -a countenance open and warm, and like Jacinto he had unfailing good -manners. The Bishop was rather surprised that he stopped so often by the -way to gather flowers. One morning he came back with the mules, holding -a bunch of crimson flowers—long, tube-shaped bells, that hung lightly -from one side of a naked stem and trembled in the wind. -</p> -<p> -"The Indians call rainbow flower," he said, holding them up and making -the red tubes quiver. "It is early for these." -</p> -<p> -When they left the rock or tree or sand dune that had sheltered them for -the night, the Navajo was careful to obliterate every trace of their -temporary occupation. He buried the embers of the fire and the remnants -of food, unpiled any stones he had piled together, filled up the holes -he had scooped in the sand. Since this was exactly Jacinto's procedure, -Father Latour judged that, just as it was the white man's way to assert -himself in any landscape, to change it, make it over a little (at least -to leave some mark or memorial of his sojourn), it was the Indian's way -to pass through a country without disturbing anything; to pass and leave -no trace, like fish through the water, or birds through the air. -</p> -<p> -It was the Indian manner to vanish into the landscape, not to stand out -against it. The Hopi villages that were set upon rock mesas, were made -to look like the rock on which they sat, were imperceptible at a -distance. The Navajo hogans, among the sand and willows, were made of -sand and willows. None of the pueblos would at that time admit glass -windows into their dwellings. The reflection of the sun on the glazing was -to them ugly and unnatural—even dangerous. Moreover, these Indians -disliked novelty and change. They came and went by the old paths worn -into the rock by the feet of their fathers, used the old natural -stairway of stone to climb to their mesa towns, carried water from the -old springs, even after white men had dug wells. -</p> -<p> -In the working of silver or drilling of turquoise the Indians had -exhaustless patience; upon their blankets and belts and ceremonial robes -they lavished their skill and pains. But their conception of decoration -did not extend to the landscape. They seemed to have none of the -European's desire to "master" nature, to arrange and re-create. They -spent their ingenuity in the other direction; in accommodating -themselves to the scene in which they found themselves. This was not so -much from indolence, the Bishop thought, as from an inherited caution -and respect. It was as if the great country were asleep, and they wished -to carry on their lives without awakening it; or as if the spirits of -earth and air and water were things not to antagonize and arouse. When -they hunted, it was with the same discretion; an Indian hunt was never -a slaughter. They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they -irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The -land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not -attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it. -</p> -<p> -As Father Latour and Eusabio approached Albuquerque, they occasionally -fell in with company; Indians going to and fro on the long winding -trails across the plain, or up into the Sandia mountains. They had all -of them the same quiet way of moving, whether their pace was swift or -slow, and the same unobtrusive demeanour: an Indian wrapped in his -bright blanket, seated upon his mule or walking beside it, moving -through the pale new-budding sage-brush, winding among the sand waves, -as if it were his business to pass unseen and unheard through a country -awakening with spring. -</p> -<p> -North of Laguna two Zuñi runners sped by them, going somewhere east on -"Indian business." They saluted Eusabio by gestures with the open palm, -but did not stop. They coursed over the sand with the fleetness of young -antelope, their bodies disappearing and reappearing among the sand -dunes, like the shadows that eagles cast in their strong, unhurried -flight. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap08"></a>BOOK EIGHT -<br><br> -<i>GOLD UNDER PIKE'S PEAK</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b> -<br><br> -<b>CATHEDRAL</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER VAILLANT had been in Santa Fé -nearly three weeks, and as yet nothing had been revealed to him that -warranted his Bishop in calling him back from Tucson. One morning -Fructosa came into the garden to tell him that lunch would be earlier -than usual, as the Bishop was going to ride somewhere that afternoon. -Half an hour later he joined his superior in the dining-room. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop seldom lunched alone. That was the hour when he could most -conveniently entertain a priest from one of the distant parishes, an -army officer, an American trader, a visitor from Old Mexico or -California. He had no parlour—his dining-room served that purpose. It -was long and cool, with windows only at the west end, opening into the -garden. The green jalousies let in a tempered light. Sunbeams played on -the white, rounded walls and twinkled on the glass and silver of the -sideboard. When Madame Olivares left Santa Fé to return to New Orleans -and sold her effects at auction, Father Latour bought her sideboard, and -the dining-table around which friends had so often gathered. Doña -Isabella gave him her silver coffee service and candelabra for -remembrance. They were the only ornaments of the severe and shadowy -room. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop was already at his place when Father Joseph entered. -"Fructosa has told you why we are lunching early? We will take a ride -this afternoon. I have something to show you." -</p> -<p> -"Very good. Perhaps you have noticed that I am a little restless. I -don't know when I have been two weeks out of the saddle before. When I -go to visit Contento in his stall, he looks at me reprovingly. He will -grow too fat." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled, with a shade of sarcasm on his upper lip. He knew his -Joseph. "Ah, well," he said carelessly, "a little rest will not hurt -him, after coming six hundred miles from Tucson. You can take him out -this afternoon, and I will ride Angelica." -</p> -<p> -The two priests left Santa Fé a little after midday, riding west. The -Bishop did not disclose his objective, and the Vicar asked no questions. -Soon they left the wagon road and took a trail running straight south, -through an empty greasewood country sloping gradually in the direction -of the naked, blue Sandia mountains. -</p> -<p> -At about four o'clock they came out upon a ridge high over the Rio -Grande valley. The trail dropped down a long decline at this point and -wound about the foot of the Sandias into Albuquerque, some sixty miles -away. This ridge was covered with cone-shaped, rocky hills, thinly clad -with piñons, and the rock was a curious shade of green, something -between sea-green and olive. The thin, pebbly earth, which was merely -the rock pulverized by weather, had the same green tint. Father Latour -rode to an isolated hill that beetled over the western edge of the -ridge, just where the trail descended. This hill stood up high and quite -alone, boldly facing the declining sun and the blue Sandias. As they -drew close to it, Father Vaillant noticed that on the western face the -earth had been scooped away, exposing a rugged wall of rock—not green -like the surrounding hills, but yellow, a strong golden ochre, very much -like the gold of the sunlight that was now beating upon it. Picks and -crowbars lay about, and fragments of stone, freshly broken off. -</p> -<p> -"It is curious, is it not, to find one yellow hill among all these green -ones?" remarked the Bishop, stooping to pick up a piece of the stone. "I -have ridden over these hills in every direction, but this is the only -one of its kind." He stood regarding the chip of yellow rock that lay in -his palm. As he had a very special way of handling objects that were -sacred, he extended that manner to things which he considered beautiful. -After a moment of silence he looked up at the rugged wall, gleaming gold -above them. "That hill, <i>Blanchet</i>, is my Cathedral." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph looked at his Bishop, then at the cliff, blinking. -"<i>Vraiment</i>? Is the stone hard enough? A good colour, certainly; -something like the colonnade of St. Peter's." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smoothed the piece of rock with his thumb. "It is more like -something nearer home—I mean, nearer Clermont. When I look up at this -rock I can almost feel the Rhone behind me." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, you mean the old Palace of the Popes, at Avignon! Yes, you are -right, it is very like. At this hour, it is like this." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop sat down on a boulder, still looking up at the cliff. "It is -the stone I have always wanted, and I found it quite by chance. I was -coming back from Isleta. I had been to see old Padre Jesus when he was -dying. I had never come by this trail, but when I reached Santo Domingo -I found the road so washed by a heavy rain that I turned out and decided -to try this way home. I rode up here from the west in the late -afternoon; this hill confronted me as it confronts us now, and I knew -instantly that it was my Cathedral." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, such things are never accidents, Jean. But it will be a long while -before you can think of building." -</p> -<p> -"Not so very long, I hope. I should like to complete it before I -die—if God so wills. I wish to leave nothing to chance, or to the -mercy of American builders. I had rather keep the old adobe church we -have now than help to build one of those horrible structures they are -putting up in the Ohio cities. I want a plain church, but I want a good -one. I shall certainly never lift my hand to build a clumsy affair of -red brick, like an English coach-house. Our own Midi Romanesque is the -right style for this country." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant sniffed and wiped his glasses. "If you once begin -thinking about architects and styles, Jean! And if you don't get -American builders, whom will you get, pray?" -</p> -<p> -"I have an old friend in Toulouse who is a very fine architect. I talked -this matter over with him when I was last at home. He cannot come -himself; he is afraid of the long sea voyage, and not used to horseback -travel. But he has a young son, still at his studies, who is eager to -undertake the work. Indeed, his father writes me that it has become the -young man's dearest ambition to build the first Romanesque church in the -New World. He will have studied the right models; he thinks our old -churches of the Midi the most beautiful in France. When we are ready, he -will come and bring with him a couple of good French stone-cutters. They -will certainly be no more expensive than workmen from St. Louis. Now -that I have found exactly the stone I want, my Cathedral seems to me -already begun. This hill is only about fifteen miles from Santa Fé; -there is an up-grade, but it is gradual. Hauling the stone will be -easier than I could have hoped for." -</p> -<p> -"You plan far ahead," Father Vaillant looked at his friend wonderingly. -"Well, that is what a Bishop should be able to do. As for me, I see only -what is under my nose. But I had no idea you were going in for fine -building, when everything about us is so poor—and we ourselves are so -poor." -</p> -<p> -"But the Cathedral is not for us, Father Joseph. We build for the -future—better not lay a stone unless we can do that. It would be a -shame to any man coming from a Seminary that is one of the architectural -treasures of France, to make another ugly church on this continent where -there are so many already." -</p> -<p> -"You are probably right. I had never thought of it before. It never -occurred to me that we could have anything but an Ohio church here. Your -ancestors helped to build Clermont Cathedral, I remember; two building -Bishops de la Tour back in the thirteenth century. Time brings things to -pass, certainly. I had no idea you were taking all this so much to -heart." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour laughed. "Is a cathedral a thing to be taken lightly, -after all?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, certainly not!" Father Vaillant moved his shoulders uneasily. -He did not himself know why he hung back in this. -</p> -<p> -The base of the hill before which they stood was already in shadow, -subdued to the tone of rich yellow clay, but the top was still melted -gold—a colour that throbbed in the last rays of the sun. The Bishop -turned away at last with a sigh of deep content. "Yes," he said slowly, -"that rock will do very well. And now we must be starting home. Every -time I come here, I like this stone better. I could hardly have hoped -that God would gratify my personal taste, my vanity, if you will, in -this way. I tell you, <i>Blanchet</i>, I would rather have found that hill -of yellow rock than have come into a fortune to spend in charity. The -Cathedral is near my heart, for many reasons. I hope you do not think me -very worldly." -</p> -<p> -As they rode home through the sage-brush silvered by moonlight, Father -Vaillant was still wondering why he had been called home from saving -souls in Arizona, and wondering why a poor missionary Bishop should care -so much about a building. He himself was eager to have the Cathedral -begun; but whether it was Midi Romanesque or Ohio German in style, -seemed to him of little consequence. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b> -<br><br> -<b>A LETTER FROM LEAVENWORTH</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE day after the Bishop and his Vicar rode -to the yellow rock the weekly post arrived at Santa Fé. It brought the -Bishop many letters, and he was shut in his study all morning. At lunch -he told Father Vaillant that he would require his company that evening -to consider with him a letter of great importance from the Bishop of -Leavenworth. -</p> -<p> -This letter of many pages was concerned with events that were happening -in Colorado, in a part of the Rocky Mountains very little known. Though -it was only a few hundred miles north of Santa Fé, communication with -that region was so infrequent that news travelled to Santa Fé from -Europe more quickly than from Pike's Peak. Under the shadow of that peak -rich gold deposits had been discovered within the last year, but Father -Vaillant had first heard of this through a letter from France. Word of -it had reached the Atlantic coast, crossed to Europe, and come from -there back to the South-west, more quickly than it could filter down -through the few hundred miles of unexplored mountains and gorges between -Cripple Creek and Santa Fé. While Father Vaillant was at Tucson he had -received a letter from his brother Marius, in Auvergne, and was vexed -that so much of it was taken up with inquiries about the gold rush to -Colorado, of which he had never heard, while Marius gave him but little -news of the war in Italy, which seemed relatively near and much more -important. -</p> -<p> -That congested heaping up of the Rocky Mountain chain about Pike's Peak -was a blank space on the continent at this time. Even the fur trappers, -coming down from Wyoming to Taos with their pelts, avoided that humped -granite backbone. Only a few years before, Frémont had tried to -penetrate the Colorado Rockies, and his party had come half-starved into -Taos at last, having eaten most of their horses. But within twelve -months everything had changed. Wandering prospectors had found large -deposits of gold near Cripple Creek, and the mountains that were -solitary a year ago were now full of people. Wagon trains were streaming -westward across the prairies from the Missouri River. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop of Leavenworth wrote Father Latour that he himself had just -returned from a visit to Cripple Creek. He had found the slopes under -Pike's Peak dotted with camps, the gorges black with placer miners; -thousands of people were living in tents and shacks, Cherry Creek was -full of saloons and gambling-rooms; and among all the wanderers and -wastrels were many honest men, hundreds of good Catholics, and not one -priest. The young men were adrift in a lawless society without spiritual -guidance. The old men died from exposure and mountain pneumonia, with no -one to give them the last rites of the Church. -</p> -<p> -This new and populous community must, for the present, the Kansas Bishop -wrote, be accounted under Father Latour's jurisdiction. His great -diocese, already enlarged by thousands of square miles to the south and -west, must now, on the north, take in the still undefined but suddenly -important region of the Colorado Rockies. The Bishop of Leavenworth -begged him to send a priest there as soon as possible,—an able one, -by all means, not only devoted, but resourceful and intelligent, one who -would be at his ease with all sorts of men. He must take his bedding and -camp outfit, medicines and provisions, and clothing for the severe -winter. At Camp Denver there was nothing to be bought but tobacco and -whisky. There were no women there, and no cook stoves. The miners lived -on half-baked dough and alcohol. They did not even keep the mountain -water pure, and so died of fever. All the living conditions were -abominable. -</p> -<p> -In the evening, after dinner, Father Latour read this letter aloud to -Father Vaillant in his study. When he had finished, he put down the -closely written pages. -</p> -<p> -"You have been complaining of inactivity, Father Joseph; here is your -opportunity." -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph, who had been growing more and more restless during the -reading of the letter, said merely: "So now I must begin speaking -English again! I can start to-morrow if you wish it." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop shook his head. "Not so fast. There will be no hospitable -Mexicans to receive you at the end of this journey. You must take your -living with you. We will have a wagon built for you, and choose your -outfit carefully. Tranquilino's brother, Sabino, will be your driver. -This, I fear, will be the hardest mission you have ever undertaken." -</p> -<p> -The two priests talked until a late hour. There was Arizona to be -considered; somebody must be found to continue Father Vaillant's work -there. Of all the countries he knew, that desert and its yellow people -were the dearest to him. But it was the discipline of his life to break -ties; to say farewell and move on into the unknown. -</p> -<p> -Before he went to bed that night Father Joseph greased his boots and -trimmed the calloused spots on his feet with an old razor. At the -Mexican village of Chimayo, over toward the Truchas mountains, the good -people were especially devoted to a little equestrian image of Santiago -in their church, and they made him a new pair of boots every few months, -insisting that he went abroad at night and wore out his shoes, even on -horseback. When Father Joseph stayed there, he used to tell them he -wished that, in addition to the consecration of the hands, God had -provided some special blessing for the missionary's feet. -</p> -<p> -He recalled affectionately an incident which concerned this Santiago of -Chimayo. Some years ago Father Joseph was asked to go to the -<i>calabozo</i> at Santa Fé to see a murderer from Chimayo. The -prisoner proved to be a boy of twenty, very gentle in face and manner. -His name was Ramon Armajillo. He had been passionately fond of -cock-fighting, and it was his undoing. He had bred a rooster that never -lost a battle, but had slit the necks of cocks in all the little towns -about. At last Ramon brought the bird to Santa Fé to match him with a -famous cock there, and half a dozen Chimayo boys came along and put up -everything they had on Ramon's rooster. The betting was heavy on both -sides, and the gate receipts also were to go to the winner. After a -somewhat doubtful beginning, Ramon's cock neatly ripped the jugular vein -of his opponent; but the owner of the defeated bird, before anyone could -stop him, reached into the ring and wrung the victor's neck. Before he -had dropped the limp bunch of feathers from his hand, Ramon's knife was -in his heart. It all happened in a flash—some of the witnesses -even insisted that the death of the man and the death of the cock were -simultaneous. All agreed that there was not time for a man to catch his -breath between the whirl of the wrist and the gleam of the knife. -Unfortunately the American judge was a very stupid man, who disliked -Mexicans and hoped to wipe out cock-fighting. He accepted as evidence -statements made by the murdered man's friends to the effect that Ramon -had repeatedly threatened his life. -</p> -<p> -When Father Vaillant went to see the boy in his cell a few days before -his execution, he found him making a pair of tiny buckskin boots, as if -for a doll, and Ramon told him they were for the little Santiago in the -church at home. His family would come up to Santa Fé for the hanging, -and they would take the boots back to Chimayo, and perhaps the little -saint would say a good word for him. -</p> -<p> -Rubbing oil into his boots by candlelight, Father Vaillant sighed. The -criminals with whom he would have to do in Colorado would hardly be of -that type, he told himself. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b> -<br><br> -<b>AUSPICE MARIA!</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE construction of Father Vaillant's wagon -took a month. It must be a wagon of very unusual design, capable of -carrying a great deal, yet light enough and narrow enough to wind -through the mountain gorges beyond Pueblo,—where there were no -roads at all except the rocky ravines cut out by streams that flowed -full in the spring but would be dry now in the autumn. While his wagon -was building, Father Joseph was carefully selecting his stores, and the -furnishings for a small chapel which he meant to construct of saplings -or canvas immediately upon his arrival at Camp Denver. Moreover, there -were his valises full of medals, crosses, rosaries, coloured pictures -and religious pamphlets. For himself, he required no books but his -breviary and the ordinary of the Mass. -</p> -<p> -In the Bishop's courtyard he sorted and re-sorted his cargo, always -finding a more necessary article for which a less necessary had to be -discarded. Fructosa and Magdalena were frequently called upon to help -him, and when a box was finally closed, Fructosa had it put away in the -woodshed. She had noticed the Bishop's brows contract slightly when he -came upon these trunks and chests in his hallway and dining-room. All -the bedding and clothing was packed in great sacks of dressed calfskin, -which Sabino procured from old Mexican settlers. These were already -going out of fashion, but in the early days they were the poor man's -trunk. -</p> -<p> -Bishop Latour also was very busy at this time, training a new priest -from Clermont; riding about with him among the distant parishes and -trying to give him an understanding of the people. As a Bishop, he could -only approve Father Vaillant's eagerness to be gone, and the enthusiasm -with which he turned to hardships of a new kind. But as a man, he was a -little hurt that his old comrade should leave him without one regret. He -seemed to know, as if it had been revealed to him, that this was a final -break; that their lives would part here, and that they would never work -together again. The bustle of preparation in his own house was painful -to him, and he was glad to be abroad among the parishes. -</p> -<p> -One day when the Bishop had just returned from Albuquerque, Father -Vaillant came in to luncheon in high spirits. He had been out for a -drive in his new wagon, and declared that it was satisfactory at last. -Sabino was ready, and he thought they would start the day after -to-morrow. He diagrammed his route on the table-cloth, and went over the -catalogue of his equipment. The Bishop was tired and scarcely touched -his food, but Father Joseph ate generously, as he was apt to do when -fired by a new project. -</p> -<p> -After Fructosa had brought the coffee, he leaned back in his chair and -turned to his friend with a beaming face. "I often think, Jean, how you -were an unconscious agent in the hands of Providence when you recalled -me from Tucson. I seemed to be doing the most important work of my life -there, and you recalled me for no reason at all, apparently. You did not -know why, and I did not know why. We were both acting in the dark. But -Heaven knew what was happening at Cripple Creek, and moved us like -chessmen on the board. When the call came, I was here to answer it—by -a miracle, indeed." -</p> -<p> -Father Latour put down his silver coffee-cup. "Miracles are all very -well, Joseph, but I see none here. I sent for you because I felt the -need of your companionship. I used my authority as a Bishop to gratify -my personal wish. That was selfish, if you will, but surely natural -enough. We are countrymen, and are bound by early memories. And that two -friends, having come together, should part and go their separate -ways—that is natural, too. No, I don't think we need any miracle to -explain all this." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant had been wholly absorbed in his preparations for saving -souls in the gold camps—blind to everything else. Now it came over -him in a flash, how the Bishop had held himself aloof from his activities; -it was a very hard thing for Father Latour to let him go; the loneliness -of his position had begun to weigh upon him. -</p> -<p> -Yes, he reflected, as he went quietly to his own room, there was a great -difference in their natures. Wherever he went, he soon made friends that -took the place of country and family. But Jean, who was at ease in any -society and always the flower of courtesy, could not form new ties. It -had always been so. He was like that even as a boy; gracious to -everyone, but known to a very few. To man's wisdom it would have seemed -that a priest with Father Latour's exceptional qualities would have been -better placed in some part of the world where scholarship, a handsome -person, and delicate perceptions all have their effect; and that a man -of much rougher type would have served God well enough as the first -Bishop of New Mexico. Doubtless Bishop Latour's successors would be men -of a different fibre. But God had his reasons, Father Joseph devoutly -believed. Perhaps it pleased Him to grace the beginning of a new era and -a vast new diocese by a fine personality. And perhaps, after all, -something would remain through the years to come; some ideal, or memory, -or legend. -</p> -<p> -The next afternoon, his wagon loaded and standing ready in the -courtyard, Father Vaillant was seated at the Bishop's desk, writing -letters to France; a short one to Marius, a long one to his beloved -Philomène, telling her of his plunge into the unknown and begging her -prayers for his success in the world of gold-crazed men. He wrote -rapidly and jerkily, moving his lips as well as his fingers. When the -Bishop entered the study, he rose and stood holding the written pages in -his hand. -</p> -<p> -"I did not mean to interrupt you, Joseph, but do you intend to take -Contento with you to Colorado?" -</p> -<p> -Father Joseph blinked. "Why, certainly. I had intended to ride him. -However, if you have need for him here——" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no. Not at all. But if you take Contento, I will ask you to take -Angelica as well. They have a great affection for each other; why -separate them indefinitely? One could not explain to them. They have -worked long together." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant made no reply. He stood looking intently at the pages of -his letter. The Bishop saw a drop of water splash down upon the violet -script and spread. He turned quickly and went out through the arched -doorway. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -At sunrise next morning Father Vaillant set out, Sabino driving the -wagon, his oldest boy riding Angelica, and Father Joseph himself riding -Contento. They took the old road to the north-east, through the sharp -red sand-hills spotted with juniper, and the Bishop accompanied them as -far as the loop where the road wound out on the top of one of those -conical hills, giving the departing traveller his last glimpse of Santa -Fé. There Father Joseph drew rein and looked back at the town lying -rosy in the morning light, the mountain behind it, and the hills close -about it like two encircling arms. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Auspice, Maria</i>!" he murmured as he turned his back on these -familiar things. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop rode home to his solitude. He was forty-seven years old, and -he had been a missionary in the New World for twenty years—ten of -them in New Mexico. If he were a parish priest at home, there would be -nephews coming to him for help in their Latin or a bit of pocket-money; -nieces to run into his garden and bring their sewing and keep an eye on -his housekeeping. All the way home he indulged in such reflections as -any bachelor nearing fifty might have. -</p> -<p> -But when he entered his study, he seemed to come back to reality, to the -sense of a Presence awaiting him. The curtain of the arched doorway had -scarcely fallen behind him when that feeling of personal loneliness was -gone, and a sense of loss was replaced by a sense of restoration. He sat -down before his desk, deep in reflection. It was just this solitariness -of love in which a priest's life could be like his Master's. It was not -a solitude of atrophy, of negation, but of perpetual flowering. A life -need not be cold, or devoid of grace in the worldly sense, if it were -filled by Her who was all the graces; Virgin-daughter, Virgin-mother, -girl of the people and Queen of Heaven: <i>le rêve suprême de la chair</i>. -The nursery tale could not vie with Her in simplicity, the wisest -theologians could not match Her in profundity. -</p> -<p> -Here in his own church in Santa Fé there was one of these nursery -Virgins, a little wooden figure, very old and very dear to the people. -De Vargas, when he recaptured the city for Spain two hundred years ago, -had vowed a yearly procession in her honour, and it was still one of the -most solemn events of the Christian year in Santa Fé. She was a little -wooden figure, about three feet high, very stately in bearing, with a -beautiful though rather severe Spanish face. She had a rich wardrobe; a -chest full of robes and laces, and gold and silver diadems. The women -loved to sew for her and the silversmiths to make her chains and -brooches. Father Latour had delighted her wardrobe keepers when he told -them he did not believe the Queen of England or the Empress of France -had so many costumes. She was their doll and their queen, something to -fondle and something to adore, as Mary's Son must have been to Her. -</p> -<p> -These poor Mexicans, he reflected, were not the first to pour out their -love in this simple fashion. Raphael and Titian had made costumes for -Her in their time, and the great masters had made music for Her, and the -great architects had built cathedrals for Her. Long before Her years on -earth, in the long twilight between the Fall and the Redemption, the -pagan sculptors were always trying to achieve the image of a goddess who -should yet be a woman. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Bishop Latour's premonition was right: Father Vaillant never returned to -share his work in New Mexico. Come back he did, to visit his old -friends, whenever his busy life permitted. But his destiny was fulfilled -in the cold, steely Colorado Rockies, which he never loved as he did the -blue mountains of the South. He came back to Santa Fé to recuperate -from the illnesses and accidents which consistently punctuated his way; -came with the Papal Emissary when Bishop Latour was made Archbishop; but -his working life was spent among bleak mountains and comfortless mining -camps, looking after lost sheep. -</p> -<p> -Creede, Durango, Silver City, Central City, over the Continental Divide -into Utah,—his strange Episcopal carriage was known throughout that -rugged granite world. -</p> -<p> -It was a covered carriage, on springs, and long enough for him to lie -down in at night,—Father Joseph was a very short man. At the back was -a luggage box, which could be made into an altar when he celebrated Mass -in the open, under a pine tree. He used to say that the mountain -torrents were the first road builders, and that wherever they found a -way, he could find one. He wore out driver after driver, and his coach -was repaired so often and so extensively that long before he abandoned -it there was none of the original structure left. -</p> -<p> -Broken tongues and singletrees, smashed wheels and splintered axles he -considered trifling matters. Twice the old carriage itself slipped off -the mountain road and rolled down the gorge, with the priest inside. -From the first accident of this kind, Father Vaillant escaped with -nothing worse than a sprain, and he wrote Bishop Latour that he -attributed his preservation to the Archangel Raphael, whose office he -had said with unusual fervour that morning. The second time he rolled -down a ravine, near Central City, his thigh-bone was broken just below -the joint. It knitted in time, but he was lamed for life, and could -never ride horseback again. -</p> -<p> -Before this accident befell him, however, he had one long visit among -his friends in Santa Fé and Albuquerque, a renewal of old ties that was -like an Indian summer in his life. When he left Denver, he told his -congregation there that he was going to the Mexicans to beg for money. -The church in Denver was under a roof, but the windows had been boarded -up for months because nobody would buy glass for them. In his Denver -congregation there were men who owned mines and saw-mills and -flourishing businesses, but they needed all their money to push these -enterprises. Down among the Mexicans, who owned nothing but a mud house -and a burro, he could always raise money. If they had anything at all, -they gave. -</p> -<p> -He called this trip frankly a begging expedition, and he went in his -carriage to bring back whatever he could gather. When he got as far as -Taos, his Irish driver mutinied. Not another mile over these roads, he -said. He knew his own territory, but here he refused to risk his neck -and the Padre's. There was then no wagon road from Taos to Santa Fé. It -was nearly a fortnight before Father Vaillant found a man who would -undertake to get him through the mountains. At last an old driver, -schooled on the wagon trains, volunteered; and with the help of ax and -pick and shovel, he brought the Episcopal carriage safely to Santa Fé -and into the Bishop's courtyard. -</p> -<p> -Once again among his own people, as he still called them, Father Joseph -opened his campaign, and the poor Mexicans began taking dollars out of -their shirts and boots (favourite places for carrying money) to pay for -windows in the Denver church. His petitions did not stop with -windows—indeed, they only began there. He told the sympathetic women -of Santa Fé and Albuquerque about all the stupid, unnecessary discomforts -of his life in Denver, discomforts that amounted to improprieties. It -was a part of the Wild West attitude to despise the decencies of life. -He told them how glad he was to sleep in good Mexican beds once more. In -Denver he lay on a mattress stuffed with straw; a French priest who was -visiting him had pulled out a long stem of hay that stuck through the -thin ticking, and called it an American feather. His dining-table was -made of planks covered with oilcloth. He had no linen at all, neither -sheets nor serviettes, and he used his wornout shirts for face towels. -The Mexican women could scarcely bear to hear of such things. Nobody in -Colorado planted gardens, Father Vaillant related; nobody would stick a -shovel into the earth for anything less than gold. There was no butter, -no milk, no eggs, no fruit. He lived on dough and cured hog meat. -</p> -<p> -Within a few weeks after his arrival, six featherbeds were sent to the -Bishop's house for Father Vaillant; dozens of linen sheets, embroidered -pillowcases and table-cloths and napkins; strings of chili and boxes of -beans and dried fruit. The little settlement of Chimayo sent a roll of -their finest blankets. -</p> -<p> -As these gifts arrived, Father Joseph put them in the woodhouse, knowing -well that the Bishop was always embarrassed by his readiness to receive -presents. But one morning Father Latour had occasion to go into the -woodhouse, and he saw for himself. -</p> -<p> -"Father Joseph," he remonstrated, "you will never be able to take all -these things back to Denver. Why, you would need an ox-cart to carry -them!" -</p> -<p> -"Very well," replied Father Joseph, "then God will send me an ox-cart." -</p> -<p> -And He did, with a driver to take the cart as far as Pueblo. -</p> -<p> -On the morning of his departure for home, when his carriage was ready, -the cart covered with tarpaulins and the oxen yoked, Father Vaillant, -who had been hurrying everyone since the first streak of light, suddenly -became deliberate. He went into the Bishop's study and sat down, talking -to him of unimportant matters, lingering as if there were something -still undone. -</p> -<p> -"Well, we are getting older, Jean," he said abruptly, after a short -silence. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop smiled. "Ah, yes. We are not young men any more. One of these -departures will be the last." -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant nodded. "Whenever God wills. I am ready." He rose and -began to pace the floor, addressing his friend without looking at him. -"But it has not been so bad, Jean? We have done the things we used to -plan to do, long ago, when we were Seminarians,—at least some of -them. To fulfil the dreams of one's youth; that is the best that can -happen to a man. No worldly success can take the place of that." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Blanchet</i>," said the Bishop rising, "you are a better man than I. -You have been a great harvester of souls, without pride and without -shame—and I am always a little cold—<i>un pédant</i>, as -you used to say. If hereafter we have stars in our crowns, yours will be -a constellation. Give me your blessing." -</p> -<p> -He knelt, and Father Vaillant, having blessed him, knelt and was blessed -in turn. They embraced each other for the past—for the future. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2><a id="chap09"></a>BOOK NINE -<br><br> -<i>DEATH COMES FOR THE -ARCHBISHOP</i></h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">W</span>HEN that devout nun, Mother Superior -Philomène, died at a great age in her native Riom, among her papers -were found several letters from Archbishop Latour, one dated December -1888, only a few months before his death. "Since your brother was called -to his reward," he wrote, "I feel nearer to him than before. For many -years Duty separated us, but death has brought us together. The time is -not far distant when I shall join him. Meanwhile, I am enjoying to the -full that period of reflection which is the happiest conclusion to a -life of action." -</p> -<p> -This period of reflection the Archbishop spent on his little country -estate, some four miles north of Santa Fé. Long before his retirement -from the cares of the diocese, Father Latour bought those few acres in -the red sand-hills near the Tesuque pueblo, and set out an orchard which -would be bearing when the time came for him to rest. He chose this place -in the red hills spotted with juniper against the advice of his friends, -because he believed it to be admirably suited for the growing of fruit. -</p> -<p> -Once when he was riding out to visit the Tesuque mission, he had -followed a stream and come upon this spot, where he found a little -Mexican house and a garden shaded by an apricot tree of such great size -as he had never seen before. It had two trunks, each of them thicker -than a man's body, and though evidently very old, it was full of fruit. -The apricots were large, beautifully coloured, and of superb flavour. -Since this tree grew against the hill-side, the Archbishop concluded that -the exposure there must be excellent for fruit. He surmised that the -heat of the sun, reflected from the rocky hill-slope up into the tree, -gave the fruit an even temperature, warmth from two sides, such as -brings the wall peaches to perfection in France. -</p> -<p> -The old Mexican who lived there said the tree must be two hundred years -old; it had been just like this when his grandfather was a boy, and had -always borne luscious apricots like these. The old man would be glad to -sell the place and move into Santa Fé, the Bishop found, and he bought -it a few weeks later. In the spring he set out his orchard and a few -rows of acacia trees. Some years afterward he built a little adobe -house, with a chapel, high up on the hill-side overlooking the orchard. -Thither he used to go for rest and at seasons of special devotion. After -his retirement, he went there to live, though he always kept his study -unchanged in the house of the new Archbishop. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -In his retirement Father Latour's principal work was the training of the -new missionary priests who arrived from France. His successor, the -second Archbishop, was also an Auvergnat, from Father Latour's own -college, and the clergy of northern New Mexico remained predominantly -French. When a company of new priests arrived (they never came singly) -Archbishop S—— sent them out to stay with Father Latour for a -few months, to receive instruction in Spanish, in the topography of the -diocese, in the character and traditions of the different pueblos. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour's recreation was his garden. He grew such fruit as was -hardly to be found even in the old orchards of California; cherries and -apricots, apples and quinces, and the peerless pears of France—even -the most delicate varieties. He urged the new priests to plant fruit trees -wherever they went, and to encourage the Mexicans to add fruit to their -starchy diet. Wherever there was a French priest, there should be a -garden of fruit trees and vegetables and flowers. He often quoted to his -students that passage from their fellow Auvergnat, Pascal: that Man was -lost and saved in a garden. -</p> -<p> -He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one -hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats -over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle -thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of -Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full -of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost -pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal -colour and countless variations of it. -</p> -<p> -In the year 1885 there came to New Mexico a young Seminarian, Bernard -Ducrot, who became like a son to Father Latour. The story of the old -Archbishop's life, often told in the cloisters and class-rooms at -Montferrand, had taken hold of this boy's imagination, and he had long -waited an opportunity to come. Bernard was handsome in person and of -unusual mentality, had in himself the fineness to reverence all that was -fine in his venerable Superior. He anticipated Father Latour's every -wish, shared his reflections, cherished his reminiscences. -</p> -<p> -"Surely," the Bishop used to say to the priests, "God himself has sent -me this young man to help me through the last years." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>2</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HROUGHOUT the autumn of the year '88 the -Bishop was in good health. He had five French priests in his house, and -he still rode abroad with them to visit the nearer missions. On -Christmas eve, he performed the midnight Mass in the Cathedral at Santa -Fé. In January he drove with Bernard to Santa Cruz to see the resident -priest, who was ill. While they were on their way home the weather -suddenly changed, and a violent rain-storm overtook them. They were in -an open buggy and were drenched to the skin before they could reach any -Mexican house for shelter. -</p> -<p> -After arriving home, Father Latour went at once to bed. During the night -he slept badly and felt feverish. He called none of his household, but -arose at the usual hour before dawn and went into the chapel for his -devotions. While he was at prayer, he was seized with a chill. He made -his way to the kitchen, and his old cook, Fructosa, alarmed at once, put -him to bed and gave him brandy. This chill left him feverish, and he -developed a distressing cough. -</p> -<p> -After keeping quietly to his bed for a few days, the Bishop called young -Bernard to him one morning and said: -</p> -<p> -"Bernard, will you ride into Santa Fé to-day and see the Archbishop for -me. Ask him whether it will be quite convenient if I return to occupy my -study in his house for a short time. <i>Je voudrais mourir à Santa Fé</i>." -</p> -<p> -"I will go at once, Father. But you should not be discouraged; one does -not die of a cold." -</p> -<p> -The old man smiled. "I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of -having lived." -</p> -<p> -From that moment on, he spoke only French to those about him, and this -sudden relaxing of his rule alarmed his household more than anything -else about his condition. When a priest had received bad news from home, -or was ill, Father Latour would converse with him in his own language; -but at other times he required that all conversation in his house should -be in Spanish or English. -</p> -<p> -Bernard returned that afternoon to say that the Archbishop would be -delighted if Father Latour would remain the rest of the winter with him. -Magdalena had already begun to air his study and put it in order, and -she would be in special attendance upon him during his visit. The -Archbishop would send his new carriage to fetch him, as Father Latour -had only an open buggy. -</p> -<p> -"Not to-day, <i>mon fils</i>," said the Bishop. "We will choose a day when -I am feeling stronger; a fair day, when we can go in my own buggy, and you -can drive me. I wish to go late in the afternoon, toward sunset." -</p> -<p> -Bernard understood. He knew that once, long ago, at that hour of the -day, a young Bishop had ridden along the Albuquerque road and seen Santa -Fé for the first time... And often, when they were driving into town -together, the Bishop had paused with Bernard on that hill-top from which -Father Vaillant had looked back on Santa Fé, when he went away to -Colorado to begin the work that had taken the rest of his life and made -him, too, a Bishop in the end. -</p> -<p> -The old town was better to look at in those days, Father Latour used to -tell Bernard with a sigh. In the old days it had an individuality, a -style of its own; a tawny adobe town with a few green trees, set in a -half-circle of carnelian-coloured hills; that and no more. But the year -1880 had begun a period of incongruous American building. Now, half the -plaza square was still adobe, and half was flimsy wooden buildings with -double porches, scroll-work and jackstraw posts and banisters painted -white. Father Latour said the wooden houses which had so distressed him -in Ohio, had followed him. All this was quite wrong for the Cathedral -he had been so many years in building,—the Cathedral that had taken -Father Vaillant's place in his life after that remarkable man went away. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour made his last entry into Santa Fé at the end of a -brilliant February afternoon; Bernard stopped the horses at the foot of -the long street to await the sunset. -</p> -<p> -Wrapped in his Indian blankets, the old Archbishop sat for a long while, -looking at the open, golden face of his Cathedral. How exactly young -Molny, his French architect, had done what he wanted! Nothing -sensational, simply honest building and good stone-cutting,—good Midi -Romanesque of the plainest. And even now, in winter, when the acacia -trees before the door were bare, how it was of the South, that church, -how it sounded the note of the South! -</p> -<p> -No one but Molny and the Bishop had ever seemed to enjoy the beautiful -site of that building,—perhaps no one ever would. But these two had -spent many an hour admiring it. The steep carnelian hills drew up so -close behind the church that the individual pine trees thinly wooding -their slopes were clearly visible. From the end of the street where the -Bishop's buggy stood, the tawny church seemed to start directly out of -those rose-coloured hills—with a purpose so strong that it was like -action. Seen from this distance, the Cathedral lay against the -pinesplashed slopes as against a curtain. When Bernard drove slowly -nearer, the backbone of the hills sank gradually, and the towers rose -clear into the blue air, while the body of the church still lay against -the mountain. -</p> -<p> -The young architect used to tell the Bishop that only in Italy, or in -the opera, did churches leap out of mountains and black pines like that. -More than once Molny had called the Bishop from his study to look at the -unfinished building when a storm was coming up; then the sky above the -mountain grew black, and the carnelian rocks became an intense lavender, -all their pine trees strokes of dark purple; the hills drew nearer, the -whole background approached like a dark threat. -</p> -<p> -"Setting," Molny used to tell Father Latour, "is accident. Either a -building is a part of a place, or it is not. Once that kinship is there, -time will only make it stronger." -</p> -<p> -The Bishop was recalling this saying of Molny's when a voice out of the -present sounded in his ear. It was Bernard. -</p> -<p> -"A fine sunset, Father. See how red the mountains are growing; Sangre de -Cristo." -</p> -<p> -Yes, Sangre de Cristo; but no matter how scarlet the sunset, those red -hills never became vermilion, but a more and more intense rose-carnelian; -not the colour of living blood, the Bishop had often reflected, but the -colour of the dried blood of saints and martyrs preserved in old -churches in Rome, which liquefies upon occasion. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>3</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE next morning Father Latour wakened with -a grateful sense of nearness to his Cathedral—which would also be -his tomb. He felt safe under its shadow; like a boat come back to -harbour, lying under its own sea-wall. He was in his old study; the -Sisters had sent a little iron bed from the school for him, and their -finest linen and blankets. He felt a great content at being here, where -he had come as a young man and where he had done his work. The room was -little changed; the same rugs and skins on the earth floor, the same -desk with his candlesticks, the same thick, wavy white walls that muted -sound, that shut out the world and gave repose to the spirit. -</p> -<p> -As the darkness faded into the grey of a winter morning, he listened for -the church bells,—and for another sound, that always amused him here; -the whistle of a locomotive. Yes, he had come with the buffalo, and he -had lived to see railway trains running into Santa Fé. He had -accomplished an historic period. -</p> -<p> -All his relatives at home, and his friends in New Mexico, had expected -that the old Archbishop would spend his closing years in France, -probably in Clermont, where he could occupy a chair in his old college. -That seemed the natural thing to do, and he had given it grave -consideration. He had half expected to make some such arrangement the -last time he was in Auvergne, just before his retirement from his duties -as Archbishop. But in the Old World he found himself homesick for the -New. It was a feeling he could not explain; a feeling that old age did -not weigh so heavily upon a man in New Mexico as in the Puy-de-Dôm. -</p> -<p> -He loved the towering peaks of his native mountains, the comeliness of -the villages, the cleanness of the country-side, the beautiful lines and -the cloisters of his own college. Clermont was beautiful,—but he -found himself sad there; his heart lay like a stone in his breast. There -was too much past, perhaps... When the summer wind stirred the lilacs in -the old gardens and shook down the blooms of the horsechestnuts, he -sometimes closed his eyes and thought of the high song the wind was -singing in the straight, striped pine trees up in the Navajo forests. -</p> -<p> -During the day his nostalgia wore off, and by dinner-time it was quite -gone. He enjoyed his dinner and his wine, and the company of cultivated -men, and usually retired in good spirits. It was in the early morning -that he felt the ache in his breast; it had something to do with waking -in the early morning. It seemed to him that the grey dawn lasted so long -here, the country was a long while in coming to life. The gardens and -the fields were damp, heavy-mists hung in the valley and obscured the -mountains; hours went by before the sun could disperse those vapours and -warm and purify the villages. -</p> -<p> -In New Mexico he always awoke a young man; not until he rose and began -to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first -consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through the -windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sagebrush and sweet clover; a -wind that made one's body feel light and one's heart cry "To-day, -to-day," like a child's. -</p> -<p> -Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble -women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those -light-hearted mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy -again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new -countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear -harvests. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open -range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had -quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of -plowed land, the heaviness of labour and growth and grain-bearing, -utterly destroyed it; one could breathe that only on the bright edges of -the world, on the great grass plains or the sage-brush desert. -</p> -<p> -That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long -after his day. He did not know just when it had become so necessary to -him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it. Something -soft and wild and free, something that whispered to the ear on the -pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the -bolts, and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the -blue and gold, into the morning, into the morning! -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>4</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">F</span>ATHER LATOUR arranged an order for his -last days; if routine was necessary to him in health, it was even more -so in sickness. Early in the morning Bernard came with hot water, shaved -him, and helped him to bathe. They had brought nothing in from the -country with them but clothing and linen, and the silver toilet articles -the Olivares had given the Bishop so long ago; these thirty years he had -washed his hands in that hammered basin. Morning prayers over, Magdalena -came with his breakfast, and he sat in his easy-chair while she made his -bed and arranged his room. Then he was ready to see visitors. The -Archbishop came in for a few moments, when he was at home; the Mother -Superior, the American doctor. Bernard read aloud to him the rest of the -morning; St. Augustine, or the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or his -favourite Pascal. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, in the morning hours, he dictated to his young disciple -certain facts about the old missions in the diocese; facts which he had -come upon by chance and feared would be forgotten. He wished he could do -this systematically, but he had not the strength. Those truths and -fancies relating to a bygone time would probably be lost; the old -legends and customs and superstitions were already dying out. He wished -now that long ago he had had the leisure to write them down, that he -could have arrested their flight by throwing about them the light and -elastic mesh of the French tongue. -</p> -<p> -He had, indeed, for years, directed the thoughts of the young priests -whom he instructed to the fortitude and devotion of those first -missionaries, the Spanish friars; declaring that his own life, when he -first came to New Mexico, was one of ease and comfort compared with -theirs. If he had used to be abroad for weeks together on short rations, -sleeping in the open, unable to keep his body clean, at least he had the -sense of being in a friendly world, where by every man's fireside a -welcome awaited him. -</p> -<p> -But the Spanish Fathers who came up to Zuñi, then went north to the -Navajos, west to the Hopis, east to all the pueblos scattered between -Albuquerque and Taos, they came into a hostile country, carrying little -provisionment but their breviary and crucifix. When their mules were -stolen by Indians, as often happened, they proceeded on foot, without a -change of raiment, without food or water. A European could scarcely -imagine such hardships. The old countries were worn to the shape of -human life, made into an investiture, a sort of second body, for man. -There the wild herbs and the wild fruits and the forest fungi were -edible. The streams were sweet water, the trees afforded shade and -shelter. But in the alkali deserts the water holes were poisonous, and -the vegetation offered nothing to a starving man. Everything was dry, -prickly, sharp; Spanish bayonet, juniper, greasewood, cactus; the -lizard, the rattlesnake,—and man made cruel by a cruel life. Those -early missionaries threw themselves naked upon the hard heart of a -country that was calculated to try the endurance of giants. They -thirsted in its deserts, starved among its rocks, climbed up and down -its terrible canyons on stone-bruised feet, broke long fasts by unclean -and repugnant food. Surely these endured <i>Hunger</i>, <i>Thirst</i>, -<i>Cold</i>, <i>Nakedness</i>, of a kind beyond any conception St. Paul -and his brethren could have had. Whatever the early Christians suffered, -it all happened in that safe little Mediterranean world, amid the old -manners, the old landmarks. If they endured martyrdom, they died among -their brethren, their relics were piously preserved, their names lived -in the mouths of holy men. -</p> -<p> -Riding with his Auvergnats to the old missions that had been scenes of -martyrdom, the Bishop used to remind them that no man could know what -triumphs of faith had happened there, where one white man met torture -and death alone among so many infidels, or what visions and revelations -God may have granted to soften that brutal end. -</p> -<p> -When, as a young man, Father Latour first went down into Old Mexico, to -claim his See at the hands of the Bishop of Durango, he had met on his -journey priests from the missions of Sonora and Lower California, who -related many stories of the blessed experiences of the early Franciscan -missionaries. Their way through the wilderness had blossomed with little -miracles, it seemed. At one time, when the renowned Father Junípero -Serra, and his two companions, were in danger of their lives from trying -to cross a river at a treacherous point, a mysterious stranger appeared -out of the rocks on the opposite shore, and calling to them in Spanish, -told them to follow him to a point farther up the stream, where they -forded in safety. When they begged to know his name, he evaded them and -disappeared. At another time, they were traversing a great plain, and -were famished for water and almost spent; a young horseman overtook them -and gave them three ripe pomegranates, then galloped away. This fruit -not only quenched their thirst, but revived and strengthened them as -much as the most nourishing food could have done, and they completed -their journey like fresh men. -</p> -<p> -One night in his travels through Durango, Father Latour was entertained -at a great country estate where the resident chaplain happened to be a -priest from one of the western missions; and he told a story of this -same Father Junípero which had come down in his own monastery from the -old times. -</p> -<p> -Father Junípero, he said, with a single companion, had once arrived at -his monastery on foot, without provisions. The Brothers had welcomed the -two in astonishment, believing it impossible that men could have crossed -so great a stretch of desert in this naked fashion. The Superior -questioned them as to whence they had come, and said the mission should -not have allowed them to set off without a guide and without food. He -marvelled how they could have got through alive. But Father Junípero -replied that they had fared very well, and had been most agreeably -entertained by a poor Mexican family on the way. At this a muleteer, who -was bringing in wood for the Brothers, began to laugh, and said there -was no house for twelve leagues, nor anyone at all living in the sandy -waste through which they had come; and the Brothers confirmed him in -this. -</p> -<p> -Then Father Junípero and his companion related fully their adventure. -They had set out with bread and water for one day. But on the second day -they had been travelling since dawn across a cactus desert and had begun -to lose heart when, near sunset, they espied in the distance three great -cottonwood trees, very tall in the declining light. Toward these they -hastened. As they approached the trees, which were large and green and -were shedding cotton freely, they observed an ass tied to a dead trunk -which stuck up out of the sand. Looking about for the owner of the ass, -they came upon a little Mexican house with an oven by the door and -strings of red peppers hanging on the wall. When they called aloud, a -venerable Mexican, clad in sheepskins, came out and greeted them kindly, -asking them to stay the night. Going in with him, they observed that all -was neat and comely, and the wife, a young woman of beautiful -countenance, was stirring porridge by the fire. Her child, scarcely more -than an infant and with no garment but his little shirt, was on the -floor beside her, playing with a pet lamb. -</p> -<p> -They found these people gentle, pious, and well-spoken. The husband said -they were shepherds. The priests sat at their table and shared their -supper, and afterward read the evening prayers. They had wished to -question the host about the country, and about his mode of life and -where he found pasture for his flock, but they were overcome by a great -and sweet weariness, and taking each a sheepskin provided him, they lay -down upon the floor and sank into deep sleep. When they awoke in the -morning they found all as before, and food set upon the table, but the -family were absent, even to the pet lamb,—having gone, the Fathers -supposed, to care for their flock. -</p> -<p> -When the Brothers at the monastery heard this account they were amazed, -declaring that there were indeed three cottonwood trees growing together -in the desert, a well-known landmark; but that if a settler had come, he -must have come very lately. So Father Junípero and Father Andrea, his -companion, with some of the Brothers and the scoffing muleteer, went -back into the wilderness to prove the matter. The three tall trees they -found, shedding their cotton, and the dead trunk to which the ass had -been tied. But the ass was not there, nor any house, nor the oven by the -door. Then the two Fathers sank down upon their knees in that blessed -spot and kissed the earth, for they perceived what Family it was that -had entertained them there. -</p> -<p> -Father Junípero confessed to the Brothers how from the moment he -entered the house he had been strangely drawn to the child, and desired -to take him in his arms, but that he kept near his mother. When the -priest was reading the evening prayers the child sat upon the floor -against his mother's knee, with the lamb in his lap, and the Father -found it hard to keep his eyes upon his breviary. After prayers, when he -bade his hosts good-night, he did indeed stoop over the little boy in -blessing; and the child had lifted his hand, and with his tiny finger -made the cross upon Father Junípero's forehead. -</p> -<p> -This story of Father Junípero's Holy Family made a strong impression -upon the Bishop, when it was told him by the fireside of that great -hacienda where he was a guest for the night. He had such an affection -for that story, indeed, that he had allowed himself to repeat it on but -two occasions; once to the nuns of Mother Philomène's convent in Riom, -and once at a dinner given by Cardinal Mazzucchi, in Rome. There is -always something charming in the idea of greatness returning to -simplicity—the queen making hay among the country girls—but -how much more endearing was the belief that They, after so many -centuries of history and glory, should return to play Their first parts, -in the persons of a humble Mexican family, the lowliest of the lowly, -the poorest of the poor,—in a wilderness at the end of the world, -where the angels could scarcely find Them! -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>5</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER his <i>déjeuner</i> the old -Archbishop made a pretence of sleeping. He requested not to be disturbed -until dinner-time, and those long hours of solitude were precious to -him. His bed was at the dark end of the room, where the shadows were -restful to his eyes; on fair days the other end was full of sunlight, on -grey days the light of the fire flickered along the wavy white walls. -Lying so still that the bed-clothes over his body scarcely moved, with -his hands resting delicately on the sheet beside him or upon his breast, -the Bishop was living over his life. When he was otherwise motionless, -the thumb of his right hand would sometimes gently touch a ring on his -forefinger, an amethyst with an inscription cut upon it, <i>Auspice -Maria</i>,—Father Vaillant's signet-ring; and then he was almost -certainly thinking of Joseph; of their life together here, in this -room ... in Ohio beside the Great Lakes ... as young men in Paris ... as -boys at Montferrand. There were many passages in their missionary life -that he loved to recall; and how often and how fondly he recalled the -beginning of it! -</p> -<p> -They were both young men in their twenties, curates to older priests, -when there came to Clermont a Bishop from Ohio, a native of Auvergne, -looking for volunteers for his missions in the West. Father Jean and -Father Joseph heard him lecture at the Seminary, and talked with him in -private. Before he left for the North, they had pledged themselves to -meet him in Paris at a given date, to spend some weeks of preparation at -the College for Foreign Missions in the rue du Bac, and then to sail -with him from Cherbourg. -</p> -<p> -Both the young priests knew that their families would strongly oppose -their purpose, so they resolved to reveal it to no one; to make no -adieux, but to steal away disguised in civilian's clothes. They -comforted each other by recalling that St. Francis Xavier, when he set -forth as missionary to India, had stolen away like this; had "<i>passed -the dwelling of his parents without saluting them</i>," as they had learned -at school; terrible words to a French boy. -</p> -<p> -Father Vaillant's position was especially painful; his father was a -stern, silent man, long a widower, who loved his children with a jealous -passion and had no life but in their lives. Joseph was the eldest child. -The period between his resolve and its execution was a period of anguish -for him. As the date set for their departure drew near, he grew thinner -and paler than ever. -</p> -<p> -By agreement the two friends were to meet at dawn in a certain field -outside Riom on the fateful day, and there await the <i>diligence</i> for -Paris. Jean Latour, having made his decision and pledged himself, knew -no wavering. On the appointed morning he stole out of his sister's house -and took his way through the sleeping town to that mountain field, -tip-tilted by reason of its steepness, just beginning to show a cold -green in the heavy light of a cloudy day-break. There he found his -comrade in a miserable plight. Joseph had been abroad in the fields all -night, wandering up and down, finding his purpose and losing it. His -face was swollen with weeping. He shook with a chill, his voice was -beyond his control. -</p> -<p> -"What shall I do, Jean? Help me!" he cried. "I cannot break my father's -heart, and I cannot break the vow I have made to Heaven. I had rather -die than do either. Ah, if I could but die of this misery, here, now!" -</p> -<p> -How clearly the old Archbishop could recall the scene; those two young -men in the fields in the grey morning, disguised as if they were -criminals, escaping by stealth from their homes. He had not known how to -comfort his friend; it seemed to him that Joseph was suffering more than -flesh could bear, that he was actually being torn in two by conflicting -desires. While they were pacing up and down, arm-in-arm, they heard a -hollow sound; the <i>diligence</i> rumbling down the mountain gorge. Joseph -stood still and buried his face in his hands. The postilion's horn -sounded. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Allons</i>!" said Jean lightly. "<i>L'invitation du voyage</i>! You -will accompany me to Paris. Once we are there, if your father is not -reconciled, we will get Bishop F—— to absolve you from your -promise, and you can return to Riom. It is very simple." -</p> -<p> -He ran to the road-side and waved to the driver; the coach stopped. In a -moment they were off, and before long Joseph had fallen asleep in his -seat from sheer exhaustion. But he always said that if Jean Latour had -not supported him in that hour of torment, he would have been a parish -priest in the Puy de Dôm for the rest of his life. -</p> -<p> -Of the two young priests who set forth from Riom that morning in early -spring, Jean Latour had seemed the one so much more likely to succeed in -a missionary's life. He, indeed, had a sound mind in a sound body. -During the weeks they spent at the College of Foreign Missions in the -rue du Bac, the authorities had been very doubtful of Joseph's fitness -for the hardships of the mission field. Yet in the long test of years it -was that frail body that had endured more and accomplished more. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour often said that his diocese changed little except in -boundaries. The Mexicans were always Mexicans, the Indians were always -Indians. Santa Fé was a quiet backwater, with no natural wealth, no -importance commercially. But Father Vaillant had been plunged into the -midst of a great industrial expansion, where guile and trickery and -honourable ambition all struggled together; a territory that developed -by leaps and bounds and then experienced ruinous reverses. Every year, -even after he was crippled, he travelled thousands of miles by stage and -in his carriage, among the mountain towns that were now rich, now poor -and deserted; Boulder, Gold Hill, Caribou, Cache-à-la-Poudre, Spanish -Bar, South Park, up the Arkansas to Cache Creek and California Gulch. -</p> -<p> -And Father Vaillant had not been content to be a mere missionary priest. -He became a promoter. He saw a great future for the Church in Colorado. -While he was still so poor that he could not have a rectory of ordinary -comfort to live in, he began buying up great tracts of land for the -Church. He was able to buy a great deal of land for very little money, -but that little had to be borrowed from banks at a ruinous rate of -interest. He borrowed money to build schools and convents, and the -interest on his debts ate him up. He made long begging trips through -Ohio and Pennsylvania and Canada to raise money to pay this interest, -which grew like a rolling snowball. He formed a land company, went -abroad and floated bonds in France to raise money, and dishonest brokers -brought reproach upon his name. -</p> -<p> -When he was nearly seventy, with one leg four inches shorter than the -other, Father Vaillant, then first Bishop of Colorado, was summoned to -Rome to explain his complicated finance before the Papal court,—and -he had very hard work to satisfy the Cardinals. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When a dispatch was flashed into Santa Fé announcing Bishop Vaillant's -death, Father Latour at once took the new railroad for Denver. But he -could scarcely believe the telegram. He recalled the old nickname, -Trompe-la-Mort, and remembered how many times before he had hurried -across mountains and deserts, not daring to hope he would find his -friend alive. -</p> -<p> -Curiously, Father Latour could never feel that he had actually been -present at Father Joseph's funeral—or rather, he could not believe -that Father Joseph was there. The shrivelled little old man in the -coffin, scarcely larger than a monkey—that had nothing to do with -Father Vaillant. He could see Joseph as clearly as he could see Bernard, -but always as he was when they first came to New Mexico. It was not -sentiment; that was the picture of Father Joseph his memory produced for -him, and it did not produce any other. The funeral itself, he liked to -remember—as a recognition. It was held under canvas, in the open -air; there was not a building in Denver—in the whole Far West, for -that matter,—big enough for his <i>Blanchet's</i> funeral. For two -days before, the populations of villages and mining camps had been -streaming down the mountains; they slept in wagons and tents and barns; -they made a throng like a National Convention in the convent square. And -a strange thing happened at that funeral: -</p> -<p> -Father Revardy, the French priest who had gone from Santa Fé to -Colorado with Father Vaillant more than twenty years before, and had -been with him ever since as his curate and Vicar, had been sent to -France on business for his Bishop. While there, he was told by his -physician that he had a fatal malady, and he at once took ship and -hurried homeward, to make his report to Bishop Vaillant and to die in -the harness. When he got as far as Chicago, he had an acute seizure and -was taken to a Catholic hospital, where he lay very ill. One morning a -nurse happened to leave a newspaper near his bed; glancing at it, Father -Revardy saw an announcement of the death of the Bishop of Colorado. When -the Sister returned, she found her patient dressed. He convinced her -that he must be driven to the railway station at once. On reaching -Denver he entered a carriage and asked to be taken to the Bishop's -funeral. He arrived there when the services were nearly half over, and -no one ever forgot the sight of this dying man, supported by the -cab-driver and two priests, making his way through the crowd and -dropping upon his knees beside the bier. A chair was brought for him, -and for the rest of the ceremony he sat with his forehead resting -against the edge of the coffin. When Bishop Vaillant was carried away to -his tomb, Father Revardy was taken to the hospital, where he died a few -days later. It was one more instance of the extraordinary personal -devotion that Father Joseph had so often aroused and retained so long, -in red men and yellow men and white. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>6</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">D</span>URING those last weeks of the Bishop's -life he thought very little about death; it was the Past he was leaving. -The future would take care of itself. But he had an intellectual -curiosity about dying; about the changes that took place in a man's -beliefs and scale of values. More and more life seemed to him an -experience of the Ego, in no sense the Ego itself. This conviction, he -believed, was something apart from his religious life; it was an -enlightenment that came to him as a man, a human creature. And he -noticed that he judged conduct differently now; his own and that of -others. The mistakes of his life seemed unimportant; accidents that had -occurred <i>en route</i>, like the shipwreck in Galveston harbour, or -the runaway in which he was hurt when he was first on his way to New -Mexico in search of his Bishopric. -</p> -<p> -He observed also that there was no longer any perspective in his -memories. He remembered his winters with his cousins on the -Mediterranean when he was a little boy, his student days in the Holy -City, as clearly as he remembered the arrival of M. Molny and the -building of his Cathedral. He was soon to have done with calendared -time, and it had already ceased to count for him. He sat in the middle -of his own consciousness; none of his former states of mind were lost or -outgrown. They were all within reach of his hand, and all -comprehensible. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, when Magdalena or Bernard came in and asked him a question, -it took him several seconds to bring himself back to the present. He -could see they thought his mind was failing; but it was only -extraordinarily active in some other part of the great picture of his -life—some part of which they knew nothing. -</p> -<p> -When the occasion warranted he could return to the present. But there -was not much present left; Father Joseph dead, the Olivares both dead, -Kit Carson dead, only the minor characters of his life remained in -present time. One morning, several weeks after the Bishop came back to -Santa Fé, one of the strong people of the old deep days of life did -appear, not in memory but in the flesh, in the shallow light of the -present; Eusabio the Navajo. Out on the Colorado Chiquito he had heard -the word, passed on from one trading post to another, that the old -Archbishop was failing, and the Indian came to Santa Fé. He, too, was -an old man now. Once again their fine hands clasped. The Bishop brushed -a drop of moisture from his eye. -</p> -<p> -"I have wished for this meeting, my friend. I had thought of asking you -to come, but it is a long way." -</p> -<p> -The old Navajo smiled. "Not long now, any more. I come on the cars, -Padre. I get on the cars at Gallup, and the same day I am here. You -remember when we come together once to Santa Fé from my country? How -long it take us? Two weeks, pretty near. Men travel faster now, but I do -not know if they go to better things." -</p> -<p> -"We must not try to know the future, Eusabio. It is better not. And -Manuelito?" -</p> -<p> -"Manuelito is well; he still leads his people." -</p> -<p> -Eusabio did not stay long, but he said he would come again to-morrow, as -he had business in Santa Fé that would keep him for some days. He had -no business there; but when he looked at Father Latour he said to -himself, "It will not be long." -</p> -<p> -After he was gone, the Bishop turned to Bernard; "My son, I have lived -to see two great wrongs righted; I have seen the end of black slavery, -and I have seen the Navajos restored to their own country." -</p> -<p> -For many years Father Latour used to wonder if there would ever be an -end to the Indian wars while there was one Navajo or Apache left alive. -Too many traders and manufacturers made a rich profit out of that -warfare; a political machine and immense capital were employed to keep -it going. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>7</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Bishop's middle years in New Mexico had -been clouded by the persecution of the Navajos and their expulsion from -their own country. Through his friendship with Eusabio he had become -interested in the Navajos soon after he first came to his new diocese, -and he admired them; they stirred his imagination. Though this nomad -people were much slower to adopt white man's ways than the homestaying -Indians who dwelt in pueblos, and were much more indifferent to -missionaries and the white man's religion, Father Latour felt a superior -strength in them. There was purpose and conviction behind their -inscrutable reserve; something active and quick, something with an edge. -The expulsion of the Navajos from their country, which had been theirs -no man knew how long, had seemed to him an injustice that cried to -Heaven. Never could he forget that terrible winter when they were being -hunted down and driven by thousands from their own reservation to the -Bosque Redondo, three hundred miles away on the Pecos River. Hundreds of -them, men, women, and children, perished from hunger and cold on the -way; their sheep and horses died from exhaustion crossing the mountains. -None ever went willingly; they were driven by starvation and the -bayonet; captured in isolated bands, and brutally deported. -</p> -<p> -It was his own misguided friend, Kit Carson, who finally subdued the -last unconquered remnant of that people; who followed them into the -depths of the Canyon de Chelly, whither they had fled from their grazing -plains and pine forests to make their last stand. They were shepherds, -with no property but their live-stock, encumbered by their women and -children, poorly armed and with scanty ammunition. But this canyon had -always before proved impenetrable to white troops. The Navajos believed -it could not be taken. They believed that their old gods dwelt in the -fastnesses of that canyon; like their Shiprock, it was an inviolate -place, the very heart and centre of their life. -</p> -<p> -Carson followed them down into the hidden world between those towering -walls of red sandstone, spoiled their stores, destroyed their -deep-sheltered corn-fields, cut down the terraced peach orchards so dear -to them. When they saw all that was sacred to them laid waste, the -Navajos lost heart. They did not surrender; they simply ceased to fight, -and were taken. Carson was a soldier under orders, and he did a -soldier's brutal work. But the bravest of the Navajo chiefs he did not -capture. Even after the crushing defeat of his people in the Canyon de -Chelly, Manuelito was still at large. It was then that Eusabio came to -Santa Fé to ask Bishop Latour to meet Manuelito at Zuñi. As a priest, -the Bishop knew that it was indiscreet to consent to a meeting with this -outlawed chief; but he was a man, too, and a lover of justice. The -request came to him in such a way that he could not refuse it. He went -with Eusabio. -</p> -<p> -Though the Government was offering a heavy reward for his person, living -or dead, Manuelito rode off his own reservation down into Zuñi in broad -daylight, attended by some dozen followers, all on wretched, -half-starved horses. He had been in hiding out in Eusabio's country on -the Colorado Chiquito. -</p> -<p> -It was Manuelito's hope that the Bishop would go to Washington and plead -his people's cause before they were utterly destroyed. They asked -nothing of the Government, he told Father Latour, but their religion, -and their own land where they had lived from immemorial times. Their -country, he explained, was a part of their religion; the two were -inseparable. The Canyon de Chelly the Padre knew; in that canyon his -people had lived when they were a small weak tribe; it had nourished and -protected them; it was their mother. Moreover, their gods dwelt -there—in those inaccessible white houses set in caverns up in the -face of the cliffs, which were older than the white man's world, and -which no living man had ever entered. Their gods were there, just as the -Padre's God was in his church. -</p> -<p> -And north of the Canyon de Chelly was the Shiprock, a slender crag -rising to a dizzy height, all alone out on a flat desert. Seen at a -distance of fifty miles or so, that crag presents the figure of a -one-masted fishing-boat under full sail, and the white man named it -accordingly. But the Indian has another name; he believes that rock was -once a ship of the air. Ages ago, Manuelito told the Bishop, that crag -had moved through the air, bearing upon its summit the parents of the -Navajo race from the place in the far north where all peoples were -made,—and wherever it sank to earth was to be their land. It sank in -a desert country, where it was hard for men to live. But they had found -the Canyon de Chelly, where there was shelter and unfailing water. That -canyon and the Shiprock were like kind parents to his people, places -more sacred to them than churches, more sacred than any place is to the -white man. How, then, could they go three hundred miles away and live in -a strange land? -</p> -<p> -Moreover, the Bosque Redondo was down on the Pecos, far east of the Rio -Grande. Manuelito drew a map in the sand, and explained to the Bishop -how, from the very beginning, it had been enjoined that his people must -never cross the Rio Grande on the east, or the Rio San Juan on the -north, or the Rio Colorado on the west; if they did, the tribe would -perish. If a great priest, like Father Latour, were to go to Washington -and explain these things, perhaps the Government would listen. -</p> -<p> -Father Latour tried to tell the Indian that in a Protestant country the -one thing a Roman priest could not do was to interfere in matters of -Government. Manuelito listened respectfully, but the Bishop saw that he -did not believe him. When he had finished, the Navajo rose and said: -</p> -<p> -"You are the friend of Cristobal, who hunts my people and drives them -over the mountains to the Bosque Redondo. Tell your friend that he will -never take me alive. He can come and kill me when he pleases. Two years -ago I could not count my flocks; now I have thirty sheep and a few -starving horses. My children are eating roots, and I do not care for my -life. But my mother and my gods are in the West, and I will never cross -the Rio Grande." -</p> -<p> -He never did cross it. He lived in hiding until the return of his exiled -people. For an unforeseen thing happened: -</p> -<p> -The Bosque Redondo proved an utterly unsuitable country for the Navajos. -It could have been farmed by irrigation, but they were nomad shepherds, -not farmers. There was no pasture for their flocks. There was no -firewood; they dug mesquite roots and dried them for fuel. It was an -alkaline country, and hundreds of Indians died from bad water. At last -the Government at Washington admitted its mistake—which governments -seldom do. After five years of exile, the remnant of the Navajo people -were permitted to go back to their sacred places. -</p> -<p> -In 1875 the Bishop took his French architect on a pack trip into Arizona -to show him something of the country before he returned to France, and -he had the pleasure of seeing the Navajo horsemen riding free over their -great plains again. The two Frenchmen went as far as the Canyon de -Chelly to behold the strange cliff ruins; once more crops were growing -down at the bottom of the world between the towering sandstone walls; -sheep were grazing under the magnificent cottonwoods and drinking at the -streams of sweet water; it was like an Indian Garden of Eden. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Now, when he was an old man and ill, scenes from those bygone times, -dark and bright, flashed back to the Bishop: the terrible faces of the -Navajos waiting at the place on the Rio Grande where they were being -ferried across into exile; the long streams of survivors going back to -their own country, driving their scanty flocks, carrying their old men -and their children. Memories, too, of that time he had spent with -Eusabio on the Little Colorado, in the early spring, when the lambing -season was not yet over,—dark horsemen riding across the sands with -orphan lambs in their arms—a young Navajo woman, giving a lamb her -breast until a ewe was found for it. -</p> -<p> -"Bernard," the old Bishop would murmur, "God has been very good to let -me live to see a happy issue to those old wrongs. I do not believe, as I -once did, that the Indian will perish. I believe that God will preserve -him." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>8</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE American doctor was consulting with -Archbishop S—— and the Mother Superior. "It is his heart -that is the trouble now. I have been giving him small doses to stimulate -it, but they no longer have any effect. I scarcely dare increase them; -it might be fatal at once. But that is why you see such a change in -him." -</p> -<p> -The change was that the old man did not want food, and that he slept, or -seemed to sleep, nearly all the time. On the last day of his life his -condition was pretty generally known. The Cathedral was full of people -all day long, praying for him; nuns and old women, young men and girls, -coming and going. The sick man had received the Viaticum early in the -morning. Some of the Tesuque Indians, who had been his country -neighbours, came into Santa Fé and sat all day in the Archbishop's -courtyard listening for news of him; with them was Eusabio the Navajo. -Fructosa and Tranquilino, his old servants, were with the supplicants in -the Cathedral. -</p> -<p> -The Mother Superior and Magdalena and Bernard attended the sick man. -There was little to do but to watch and pray, so peaceful and painless -was his repose. Sometimes it was sleep, they knew from his relaxed -features; then his face would assume personality, consciousness, even -though his eyes did not open. -</p> -<p> -Toward the close of day, in the short twilight after the candles were -lighted, the old Bishop seemed to become restless, moved a little, and -began to murmur; it was in the French tongue, but Bernard, though he -caught some words, could make nothing of them. He knelt beside the bed: -"What is it, Father? I am here." -</p> -<p> -He continued to murmur, to move his hands a little, and Magdalena -thought he was trying to ask for something, or to tell them something. -But in reality the Bishop was not there at all; he was standing in a -tip-tilted green field among his native mountains, and he was trying to -give consolation to a young man who was being torn in two before his eyes -by the desire to go and the necessity to stay. He was trying to forge a -new Will in that devout and exhausted priest; and the time was short, -for the <i>diligence</i> for Paris was already rumbling down the mountain -gorge. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -When the Cathedral bell tolled just after dark, the Mexican population -of Santa Fé fell upon their knees, and all American Catholics as well. -Many others who did not kneel prayed in their hearts. Eusabio and the -Tesuque boys went quietly away to tell their people; and the next -morning the old Archbishop lay before the high altar in the church he -had built. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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