Ramona

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  XVIII

  EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramonawould never have had courage to remain during this long hour in thegraveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer,and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering atHartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in herthoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflectedupon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to havemade. Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible sceneswhich might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she wassitting, helpless, in the midnight darkness,--Alessandro seized, tied,treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, toterrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she wouldride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if shewould go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word,but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's meaning, "I must go! It is toolong! I cannot wait here!" Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, andsaid in the San Luiseno tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but whichyet somehow conveyed Carmena's meaning, "O beloved lady, you must notgo! Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. Hewill come." The word "Alessandro" was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said,wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. Itwas strange how Ramona, who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraidof nothing, so long as Alessandro was by her side, became timorous andwretched the instant he was lost to her sight. When she first heard hissteps coming, she quivered with terror lest they might not be his. Thenext second she knew; and with a glad cry, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" shebounded to him, dropping Baba's reins.

  Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holdingthe horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words."How she loves Alessandro!" thought the widowed Carmena. "Will theyleave him alive to stay with her? It is better not to love!" But therewas no bitter envy in her mind for the two who were thus blest while shewent desolate. All of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro.They had looked forward to his being over them in his father's place.They knew his goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves.

  "Majella, you tremble," said Alessandro, as he threw his arms aroundher. "You have feared! Yet you were not alone." He glanced at Carmena'smotionless figure, standing by Baba.

  "No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!" replied Ramona;"and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any onethere?"

  "No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had justcome from Pachanga," he answered.

  "Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,"continued Ramona. "But she told me to wait."

  "She told you!" repeated Alessandro. "How did you understand herspeech?"

  "I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?" replied Ramona. "She spokein your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did notsay that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said,and you would soon come."

  Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. "Did you say that?" he asked.

  "Yes," answered Carmena.

  "You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words," he saiddelightedly. "She is one of us."

  "Yes," said Carmena, gravely, "she is one of us." Then, taking Ramona'shand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of direprophecy, "One of us, Alessandro! one of us!" And as she gazed aftertheir retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in thedarkness, she repeated the words again to herself,--"One of us! one ofus! Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!" and she crept back to herhusband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn.

  The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry themdirectly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meetingor being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out tothe north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them pastthe place where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, andputting his hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile ofruined walls. "This was Antonio's house, Majella," he whispered. "I wishevery house in the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana wasright. The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella," he wenton, his whisper growing thick with rage. "That was what kept me so long.I was looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought Ishould go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them alldead!"

  An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. "Living inyour house!" she said. "You saw them?"

  "Yes," he said; "the man, and his wife, and two little children; and theman came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thoughtthey heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired.That was what kept me so long."

  Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground.A few steps farther, and he tripped again. "There is something caughtround his foot, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It keeps moving."

  Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, "It's astake,--and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what--" The rest ofhis ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run swiftlyon, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and therestood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talkingunder his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse'snose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardlya second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony,and striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddledthe black horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in hisvoice: "My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeedhave helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such astake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we willgallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of thiscursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know atrail they will never find!"

  Like the wind galloped Benito,--Alessandro half lying on his back,stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy:which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. Andneck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under theirfeet! This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers.Not in all the California herds could be found two superber horsesthan Benito and Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession ofAlessandro. Ramona was half terrified as she heard him still talking,talking to Benito. For an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benitoand Alessandro knew every inch of the ground. Then, just as they haddescended into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reinedsharply to the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. "Can youfollow, dearest Majella?" he cried.

  "Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?" she retorted,pressing on closely.

  But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, hewould have given Ramona trouble.

  "There is only a little, rough like this, dear," called Alessandro, ashe leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. "Good!" hecried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. "Good! Majella! We have got thetwo best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylightcomes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would gotogether splendidly."

  After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top ofthe canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free fromunderbrush. "Now," said Alessandro, "I can go from here to San Diego bypaths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight."

  Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drankit in with delight. "I taste salt in the air, Alessandro," she cried.

  "Yes, it is the sea," he said. "This canon leads straight to the sea. Iwish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When itis still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play;and you can ride along with your horse'
s feet in the water, and thegreen cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is likewine in one's head."

  "Cannot we go there?" she said longingly. "Would it not be safe?"

  "I dare not," he answered regretfully. "Not now, Majella; for on theshore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming."

  "Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, andthere is no danger?" she asked.

  "Yes, Majella," he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, "Willa time ever come when there will be no danger?"

  The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is asuccession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, downmany of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green andrich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as littlemore than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at theirmouths they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth toa quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reachbefore morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, andcommanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, hehad found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, hebelieved, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride intoSan Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasqualethat same night. "All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,"he thought; "but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees havebeen cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore."

  It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not beencut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of mossfilling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. AsRamona looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading outto the wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought herinto a fairy-land.

  "What a beautiful world!" she cried; and riding up so close to Benitothat she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: "Do younot think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautifulworld as this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?"

  Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it wasnot yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upwardfrom the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in thelight-house on the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a fewmoments more it would be day. "No, Majella, not here." he said. "We mustnot stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on thisupper coast-line as far as eye can reach. We must be among the treeswith all the speed we can make."

  It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, theshelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water stillremained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of thelong drought,--a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it withrelish in each other's company.

  "They like each other, those two," said Ramona, laughing, as she watchedthem. "They will be friends."

  "Ay," said Alessandro, also smiling. "Horses are friends, like men, andcan hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio'smare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her;and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many atime I have laughed to see it."

  "Know you the priest at San Diego?" asked Ramona.

  "Not well," replied Alessandro. "He came seldom to Temecula when I wasthere; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men fromSan Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were ingreat terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, therewould not have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sentall his people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, buthe would have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy.It was no use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worstthing, my Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what canwe do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has neverbeen to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now theSan Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from thestarving poor."

  "A priest!" ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.

  "Ay! a priest!" replied Alessandro. "They are not all good,--not likeFather Salvierderra."

  "Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!" exclaimedRamona, involuntarily.

  Alessandro looked distressed. "It would have been much more danger,Majella," he said, "and I had no knowledge of work I could do there."

  His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay onefeather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. "Oh, this ismuch better, really," she said. "I did not mean what I said. It is onlybecause I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora willtell him what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?"

  "There is a Santa Inez Indian I know," replied Alessandro, "who comesdown with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goesto San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from SantaInez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father'shouse, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he isalways begging me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is nottwo days from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara."

  "I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro," sighed Ramona, "whenthe men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there wouldbe work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were likepalaces, and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them;thousands and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful."

  "The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions," repliedAlessandro. "My father says that at some of them were dreadful things,when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. FatherPeyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that theywould all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it.And when he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken,and the Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as youand I have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risenup to keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail forMexico, and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was overthis same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; andmy father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came withhim; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and myfather carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred thingsof the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told me thestory, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowedout to the ship in a little boat; and not much more than on board washe, my father standing like one dead on the shore, watching, he lovedhim so, when, lo! he heard a great crying, and shouting, and tramplingof horses' feet, and there came galloping down to the water's edge threehundred of the Indians from San Luis Rey, who had found out that theFather had gone to San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all nighton his track, to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship,and told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bringthe very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, andswam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on board and gowith him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, blessing them, andsaying farewell, with the tears running on his face; and one of theIndians--how they never knew--made shift to climb up on the chainsand ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they let him stay, andhe sailed away with the Father. And my father said he was all his lifesorry that he himself had not thought to do the same thing; but hewas like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so unhappy at theFather's going."

  "Was it here, in this very harbor?" asked Ramona, in breathlessinterest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see abroad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.

  "Ay, just there he sailed,--as that ship goes now," he exclaimed, as awhite-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. "But the shiplay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor fro
m here.It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two highlands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if theyloved it."

  "But, Alessandro," continued Ramona, "were there really bad men at theother Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?"

  "Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It wastoo much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it hasseemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not rightthat one man should have so much power. There was one at the San GabrielMission he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when awhole band of them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains,he went after them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; thepieces were strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was toknow them by again,--by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno,who came over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at theMission herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions;some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they alwayshad lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they preferred,Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not knowanything; but do you not think they had the right?"

  "It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature," replied thepious Ramona. "That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reasonthe Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indianslisten. But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believeit?"

  "The old woman laughed when she told it," he answered. "She said it wasa joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man whotried to crop my ears that way."

  "Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?" asked Ramona.

  "No, Majella. It would not be polite," said Alessandro.

  "Well, I don't believe it," replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. "I don'tbelieve any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things."

  The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out,and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent toresume their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego,where Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to SanLuis Rey, and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it.

  But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when theyreached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, lowadobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidiodays, but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except thoseoccupied by the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the oppositeside of the way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,--apoverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed,decorated by a few coarse pictures and by broken sconces oflooking-glass, rescued in their dilapidated condition from theMission buildings, now gone utterly to ruin. In these had been puthandle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap candles dimly lightedthe room. Everything about it was in unison with the atmosphere of theplace,--the most profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Herewas the spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra,began his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim thewilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this verybeach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, nursingthe sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, from thepestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he baptizedhis first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And the onlytraces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes were apile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less thananother century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping ofthat mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of hergraves.

  Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not aFranciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had beenfrom the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place.He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things hecould have been,--a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had madehim a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded thesword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight orto sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation.The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,--neither the look nor thetread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, andquick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with hispriest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him whichhad made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, ashe found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundredsof Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old,into the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them intheir shifting refuges, following up family after family, band afterband, that he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to theGovernment officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had madeequally bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them,from officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itselfto greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened,and indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetictemperament alone can feel, he had ceased,--had said, "It is of no use;I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!" and settling downinto the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and Irishcongregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort todo more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or twicea year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were broughtto his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard,with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp thanthe altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, hewould sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smokeby the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor,brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress.

  A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a finebrick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart tosee builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With SanDiego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gonethis hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if itwould be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church on this site.Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield tothe demands of the living. To build a church on the ground where FatherJunipero first trod and labored, would be a work to which no Catholiccould be indifferent; but there were other and more pressing claims tobe met first. This was right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, onlya few feet high, was a sore one to Father Gaspara,--a daily cross, whichhe did not find grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, yearin and year out, in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magicclimate.

  "Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!" exclaimedAlessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. "Father Gaspara mustbe there;" and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtainedwindow. "A marriage, Majella,--a marriage!" he cried, hastily returning."This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long."

  When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple hadjust come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper waswaiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard,where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whomhe hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there hadbeen neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. TheFather was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which heregarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of theleast prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who hadnever knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and whohad supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shockedat the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his firstglance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.

  "What is all this!" he thought; and as quick as he thought it, heexclaimed, in a severe t
one, looking at Ramona, "Woman, are you anIndian?"

  "Yes, Father," answered Ramona, gently. "My mother was an Indian."

  "Ah! half-breed!" thought Father Gaspara. "It is strange how sometimesone of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is nocommon creature;" and it was with a look of new interest and sympathyon his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,--the other couple, amiddle-aged Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standingquietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly,impassive faces, as if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry.

  The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms,locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitterreason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man'sinterest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769,and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself.

  As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, theIrish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other,Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, "Will you ride,dear? It is but a step."

  "No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk," she replied; andAlessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm,they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and wasstill more puzzled.

  "He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady," he mused. "What does itmean? Who are they?"

  Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had beenused to associations far superior to any which he had known in hisCalifornian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as thatwith which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard inhis parish. When they entered his house, he again regarded them bothattentively. Ramona wore on her head the usual black shawl of theMexican women. There was nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, inher figure or face. In the dim light of the one candle,--Father Gasparaallowed himself no luxuries,--the exquisite coloring of her skin and thedeep blue of her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figureand dignified bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many asfine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spokebetter Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians.

  "Where are you from?" said the Father, as he held his pen poised inhand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book.

  "Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro.

  Father Gaspara dropped his pen. "The village the Americans drove out theother day?" he cried.

  "Yes, Father."

  Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement,as usual, in pacing the floor. "Go! go! I'm done with you! It's allover," he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given himtheir names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, notknowing if all were ended or not. "A burning shame! The most dastardlything I have seen yet in this land forsaken of God!" cried the Father."I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then,coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: "The paper saidthat the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; thatthe sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?"

  "Yes, Father," replied Alessandro.

  The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. "What areyou going to do?" he said. "Where have you all gone? There were twohundred in your village the last time I was there."

  "Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied Alessandro, "some to SanPasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino."

  "Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!" stormed FatherGaspara.

  Alessandro did not understand the word "philosophy," but he knew whatthe Father meant. "Yes, Father," he said doggedly. "It is now twenty-onedays ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done."

  Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce,black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angryinvectives.

  "The United States Government will suffer for it!" he continued. "It isa Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see;they will be visited with a curse,--a curse in their borders; their sonsand their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these vainwords? My son, tell me your names again;" and he seated himself oncemore at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open.

  After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. "And the woman's?"he said.

  Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply,"Majella." What name should he give more?

  Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, "Majella. Majella Phailis my name."

  She pronounced the word "Phail," slowly. It was new to her. She hadnever seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, towhom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in twosyllables, and so wrote it.

  The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should anyone, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in thewoman married under the name of "Majella Fayeel"?

  "No, no! Put up your money, son," said Father Gaspara, as Alessandrobegan to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied."Put up your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I wouldthe Church had money to give you. Where are you going now?"

  "To San Pasquale, Father."

  "Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper," saidFather Gaspara. "He was showing it to me the other day. That will, itmay be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself apiece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing."

  Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. "How is that, Father?"he said. "I do not know."

  "Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach," repliedFather Gaspara; "and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motionalso, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have pickedout your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with youand see that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell;but I myself am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son!Farewell, daughter!" he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was againgetting the better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat downto his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; butafter supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, theyreturned again, and lingered in his thoughts,--lingered strangely, itseemed to him; he could not shake off the impression that there wassomething unusual about the woman. "I shall hear of them again, someday," he thought. And he thought rightly.