3525 
 
 MI2.51
 
 [BRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL IFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Commodore Byron McCandless
 
 O/YlCU
 
 
 NATANA
 
 fmtrtra 
 
 Hargarrt fftll Urdarirr 
 
 Crane C5J, Company 
 
 Topeka, Kan. 
 
 1908
 
 Copyright by 
 
 Crane & Company, Topeka, Kansas) 
 1908.
 
 THIS BRIEF TALE OF A HALF- FORGOTTEN YESTERDAY 
 IS DEDICATED TO MY SISTER, 
 
 iCtzztp ifiU Williams. 

 
 TN 
 
 all this crowded universe 
 
 There is but one stupendous Word; 
 
 And huge and rough, or trimmed and terse, 
 Its fragments build and undergird 
 
 The songs and stories we rehearse. 
 
 ^HERE is no tree that rears its crest, 
 No fern or flower that cleaves the sod, 
 
 No bird that sings above its nest, 
 But tries to speak this Word of God, 
 
 And dies when it has done its best. 
 
 "A 
 
 ND this Great Word, all words above, 
 
 Including, yet defying all 
 Soft as the crooning of a dove, 
 
 And strong as the Archangel's call 
 Means only this means only Love ! " 
 
 Holland.
 
 "And even now when the night comes, and the shad 
 ows gather round, 
 
 And you tell the old-time story, I can almost hear the 
 sound 
 
 Of the horses' hoofs in the silence, and the voices of 
 struggling men; 
 
 For the night is the same forever, and the time comes 
 
 back again.' 
 
 JAMES W. STEELE. 
 
 ^^ _ T may have been a dream, 
 *' *: yet it was so real it was as 
 the blending of light and 
 shadow, neither the one 
 nor the other, but both in one. And 
 it was so natural and full of pulsing 
 life the dreamer caught in it no hint 
 of mystic unreality; nor then nor 
 ever afterward did the memory of it 
 seem other than as a living tapestry 
 gracing the outer walls of yesterday. 
 
 It was a Kansas Christmas Eve. 
 
 .(7)
 
 3I 
 
 The sun of a grand December day 
 had swung down through a sea of 
 crystal radiance, and lay now for 
 one brief moment on the rim of the 
 world in a last rich chrism of benefi 
 cent glory. A moment later, and 
 the sun was gone, but far up the sky 
 there shot long slender shafts of 
 pink that touched each little float 
 ing cloud with beauty. And while 
 the twilight deepened below, the 
 light overhead held sway for a brief 
 time longer. Its reflection bent 
 earthward and caught the projecting 
 points of the landscape in its scope. 
 Highest of all these was the dome of 
 the Kansas Capitol, through whose 
 broad windows the last rays of day 
 light fell. They illumined the great 
 inner concave of the dome and drove 
 back the shadows of the upper cor 
 ridor that had gathered boldly even 
 before sunset. 
 
 (8)
 
 Outside, the pink grew suddenly 
 dull, the light went out, and a gray 
 twilight passed into a darkness that 
 the stars pointed up with their far 
 cold fires. 
 
 In the upper corridor the light 
 tarries longest, as if to guard what 
 gold cannot duplicate. For here are 
 gathered the historic emblems of a 
 commonwealth, the treasure'- trove 
 of Time, cast up by the fleeting 
 years. When the light has quite 
 gone from the sky the shadows here 
 are gray and dreamy before they 
 deepen into darkness. On this 
 Christmas Eve the corners of the 
 corridor, the hangings on the walls, 
 the busts and their pedestals, and 
 the cases of precious historic relics 
 did not lose outline and blend into 
 dull featureless space. Instead, the 
 glow of twilight lingered and a soft 
 radiance filled all the place. This 
 
 (9)
 
 that follows is only a trick of the 
 dreamer's memory, and to the 
 dreamer it was genuine and sweet 
 with inspiration. 
 
 Today slipped back into yesterday. 
 As in a wide panorama down the 
 vista of years came the pictures of 
 the Past whose symbols are here in 
 the gray shadows. A soft light like 
 an aureole was about the bust of old 
 John Brown, whose head modeled 
 in clay is not unlike a Greek hero's. 
 And it was in this light that there 
 grew, from far faint outlines at first, 
 a picture deep and intensely real. 
 The halls of the corridor stretched 
 away till they compassed the valleys 
 of the Kaw, the Neosho, and the 
 Marais des Cygnes, with their wooded 
 ravines, their sparsely cultivated 
 prairies, and the log cabins of the 
 pioneers the first home-builders of 
 the West. 
 
 (10)
 
 And farther in the picture's purple 
 distance lay the level floors of the 
 short-grass country over which, wan 
 dering eastward, came the Smoky 
 Hill and the Cimarron. And beyond 
 all these, sloping away into a never- 
 ending barrenness under a pitiless 
 sky, stretched an unbilled land cut 
 ting an unbroken horizon -line. And 
 everywhere loneliness and poverty 
 joined hands with monotony and 
 isolation, in their determination to 
 fight back the first white settler here. 
 In the foreground. the picture grew 
 lurid, for this was the time of Border 
 Strife. The fires of burning homes 
 glared savagely up at a black mid 
 night sky. The sunshine on the 
 prairies turned sickly pale as it fell 
 upon the sod splotched with the 
 blood of brave heroes and innocent 
 victims. 
 
 And then the picture faded, and 
 (ID
 
 the gray twilight in folds of shimmer 
 ing softness draped all the place with 
 its filmy hangings. 
 
 But this was not the beginning 
 here. A Past, back of this Past, had 
 its own story to tell. On these cor 
 ridor walls hang portraits of sainted 
 faces, the faces of the men and wo 
 men who foreran the white settler 
 and brought the story of the blessed 
 Gospel to the savage folk whom they 
 called their "brothers in Christ." 
 
 It was only a wilderness to which 
 they came, these good men and wo 
 men whose portraits were wreathed 
 about by the dim curtains of the 
 twilight. Here and there a lonely 
 trail led across the plain toward the 
 Grand Prairie, the common hunting- 
 ground of the wild tribes. 
 
 To the dreamer at that moment 
 the Kansas of this bygone time came 
 again. In the log mission house were 
 
 (12)
 
 3ltt lfc (potato 
 
 the men and women who had con 
 secrated their lives to a cause. 
 Bravely they had set their faces 
 westward and without once looking 
 back they took hold of the slow, dis 
 couraging labor in a strange and iso 
 lated land. Father and Mother 
 Meeker, Father and Mother Simer- 
 well, and all the little company of 
 Christian missionaries were here, 
 again living over their struggles for 
 the Red Man's welfare. And with 
 these and beyond them were the holy 
 men in priestly garb Father Pon- 
 ziglone, Father Schoenmacher ; and 
 earlier than these were Van Quick- 
 enborne and Meigs of reverend high 
 calling. In the tepees of the native 
 tribes these godly men set up the 
 altar of the sacred Church, and the 
 worship of Gitchie Manitou, in its 
 uncertainty and dread, gave place 
 to faith and hope and love. And if 
 
 ( 13 )
 
 the hold of these little ones on the 
 Christian's creed was only a feeble 
 grasp, it was a groping toward the 
 light, not a groveling in darkness. 
 But the picture vanished, and only 
 the portraits on the walls looked 
 down in their calm serenity upon the 
 reverent dreamer. Among them 
 there was the young strong face of 
 Zebulon Montgomery Pike, gracing 
 the military dress that betokened 
 his official rank. As if he had stepped 
 from the frame and like Pygmalion's 
 "Galatea" had become endued with 
 life, there unrolled about him a scene 
 of heroic grandeur. A hundred years 
 have come and gone since that scene 
 out in mid-prairie was a part of the 
 drama of the West. The broad Re 
 publican valley winding down from 
 the north, cuts the picture. On the 
 heights above it are the tepees of a 
 thousand Pawnee warriors, called 
 
 (14)
 
 Slit 
 
 together now in portentous council. 
 Over the chief's tepee floats the flag 
 of Spain, the emblem of Pawnee alleg 
 iance. Before this council of stolid, 
 sullen savages stands young Lieuten 
 ant Pike, erect, fearless, every inch 
 a soldier, a superior by instinct, a 
 commander by birthright. He de 
 mands that the Spanish flag shall be 
 hauled down and the Stars and 
 Stripes be placed in its stead. It is 
 the voice of the indomitable Saxon 
 spirit that speaks, and the Red Man 
 must needs obey. 
 
 But the picture faded as the others 
 had done, and a new one came in its 
 stead. It lies beyond the day of 
 trail and trader, of missionary and 
 path-maker. 
 
 In the corner of the corridor where 
 the shades are deepest hangs an old 
 wooden oar, such as the Frenchmen 
 long ago had used to push back the 
 
 (15)
 
 3ltt ($& (fmmra 
 
 sluggish waters about their crude 
 pirogues. Dust and ashes are the 
 hands that had held it. Wrecked or 
 lost or thrown aside, it had fallen on 
 an island in the Kaw. Some chance 
 flood may have covered it with sand, 
 and year by year a deepening soil 
 had buried it. Ten feet below the 
 surface it lay when the busy bridge 
 engineers digging for the foundations 
 of their piers had found it. The 
 picture it called up was of the land 
 as the roving French voyageur knew 
 it, in its primitive beauty and pic 
 turesque savage life, full two cen 
 turies ago. 
 
 The tale this old oar might have 
 told the dreamer would seem to be 
 of the outer bound of this story of 
 the West. For what could lie be 
 yond in the dim past that the white 
 man could fathom? Behind it 
 seemed to stretch the long unknown 
 
 (16)
 
 years of an unknown people, wherein 
 tradition itself lost count. 
 
 One token there was here, however, 
 shut away from the light as its own 
 story is held in the grasp of the un 
 recorded years. In the vault where 
 the most precious things are kept 
 lies an old Spanish sword that some 
 where on the far plains had been lost 
 in the far -lost years. It had its 
 story, and the dreamer with ear 
 attuned to silent voices heard it all. 
 It may have been because this was 
 the blessed Christmas Eve, when 
 Christian folk turn back the pages 
 tenderly to the holy night of long 
 ago in Bethlehem. It may have 
 been that the dreamer's own heart 
 was chastened and only the best and 
 kindest things of life seemed at that 
 moment worth while. Or it may 
 have been that the spirit of the 
 Christ, abroad in the world on this 
 
 (17)
 
 (fmmra 
 
 Christmastide as never before, led 
 the dreamer back to the day of its 
 first coming to these prairies of the 
 West. Whatever the cause, the old 
 lost sword told a sweet story of the 
 long ago, and through it all the same 
 spirit that made it good to hear 
 makes good the stories of today, 
 for it is the spirit of an overshadow 
 ing, unselfish love, that has the 
 universe for its own. 
 
 (18)
 
 ie/.\^|5^l?e(^ln,tU!t,eyening-time, 
 vc us the sky spread golden and clear, 
 
 bent his head and looked in my eyes, 
 As if he held me of all most dear. 
 
 Oh ! it was sweet in the evenfnf time ! ' ' 
 
 T was Christmas Eve in 
 the province of New Spain 
 three centuries and a half 
 ago. The little town of 
 Compostela was gay with tokens of 
 the coming holy -day. Even the 
 brown adobe houses along the nar 
 row streets, looking so like one an 
 other, half Spanish, half Aztec, 
 seemed to radiate through their plain 
 mud walls a vibration of the coming 
 of the year's best day. Compostela, 
 like all the towns and cities of New 
 Spain, was very young. Hardly a 
 score of years had passed since Cortez 
 
 (19)
 
 3ltt <tfi (firitrira 
 
 had wrested- the kingdom of the 
 Montezumas from its Aztec owners 
 and made it a province of the proud 
 rich peninsula of Europe. Yet in 
 these eighteen years Mexico, with its 
 civilization centuries old, had learned 
 to the full what the pale-faced ruler 
 in coat of mail could do with a con 
 quered people. In the hoary old 
 city of Mexico Mendoza, "the good 
 viceroy," had his seat of government. 
 From the Gulf to the Pacific coast, 
 towns and cities had grown, as if by 
 magic, on sandy plain and mild ver 
 dant mountain-slope. A host of 
 Europeans had overrun the land. 
 Greedy gold-hunters, gay adven 
 turers, men hungry for political 
 power or military glory ; men eager 
 to rebuild shattered fortunes or re- 
 guild tarnished reputations; men 
 hiding in a wild new land from the 
 strong arm of the Spanish law, or 
 
 (20)
 
 3Jtt 
 
 burying here the corpse of a dead 
 love, or a blasted life ambition, 
 all went into the making of this new 
 province whose revenue poured 
 steadily into the coffers of church 
 and state in Old Spain. 
 
 The sun was low in the west on 
 this twenty-fourth day of December, 
 in the year of our Lord 1539, when 
 a courier riding a tired mule came 
 down the last lap of narrow roadway 
 and passed through the town's east 
 ern gate. Up the main street he 
 took his way with the leisure of one 
 who is ending a long journey on time 
 and may begin his vacation a little 
 in advance. Before the wide ve 
 randa of the largest building in the 
 public square he halted, and a crowd 
 at once surrounded him. 
 
 "Ho! Pedro! Pedro!" they cried 
 in Spanish. "What news? What 
 news?" 
 
 (21)
 
 3ltt <to (f utmra 
 
 ' ' I could tell you better if I had a 
 drop of Madeira to wet my throat. 
 The last ships from Spain bring His 
 Majesty's full consent to the equip 
 ping and sending out of an expedi 
 tion to conquer the Seven Cities of 
 Cibola and the land of Quivira. 
 And Viceroy Mendoza is to prepare 
 for it directly after the Christmas- 
 tide. I bring many messages. I 
 am loaded with packets, as this 
 stubborn little mule could tell you. 
 Something for everybody. News 
 from home for all of you, but most 
 for Fra Padilla." 
 
 So chattered the careless Pedro to 
 the eager company, more than one of 
 whom carried a homesick heart under 
 his Spanish dress. 
 
 "Holy Father," said the courier, 
 bowing reverently as a man in the 
 garb of a priest approached, "give 
 me your blessing. I bring you many 
 
 (22)
 
 3ln 
 
 letters, and some entrusted to your 
 care to be given to others by you 
 alone." 
 
 The good father gave the blessing, 
 received from the courier's hands a 
 sealed packet, and with a wave of 
 benediction upon the crowd and a 
 smile no less beneficent than his 
 words, walked toward the monastery 
 at the end of the street. 
 
 The sun was very low now, and 
 a crimson glory flushed all the west 
 ern sky, and bathed the misty peaks 
 of the Sierra Madre with softest pink. 
 Deep purple shadows were gathering 
 in the lower valleys as the day came 
 to these last hours of rich coloring. 
 
 Just as the courier had ridden his 
 weary beast up the principal street 
 of the town, a young man had passed 
 with springing step out of the west 
 ern city gate. Turning from the 
 road that led down toward the sea, 
 
 (23)
 
 3ftt (tt (fmmra 
 
 he climbed to a small table-land over 
 looking the town and the plain be 
 yond. The air was balmy and sweet 
 here, and a scene of varied beauty 
 lay revealed in the sunset lights. 
 
 To the young Spaniard sitting idly 
 on a shelf of rocky outcrop the beauty 
 of the evening was only a harmonious 
 note in his own mood. His mind was 
 far away, and he gazed at the valley 
 with eyes that saw only pictures of 
 memory. He was a strong, hand 
 some young fellow, with the purely 
 Spanish features and graceful motion. 
 There was, however, in his face a cer 
 tain hint of tenderness, a suggestion 
 of nobleness of character unlike the 
 gay, cruel-hearted young men of his 
 class who filled New Spain with law 
 lessness and dissipation in these care 
 less years of Spanish supremacy. 
 
 The shadows below grew deeper, 
 and the light overhead was softened 
 
 (124)
 
 3ltt <to (fututra 
 
 when up the path to the little shelf of 
 table-land Fra Juan Padilla passed 
 with strong firm step. He was a man 
 of powerful build, who graced the 
 priestly garb he wore. There was in 
 his physique no suggestion of the 
 corpulence of gross living. Erect as 
 a military commander, his clear olive 
 skin, his white teeth, his firm square 
 chin and penetrating dark eyes be 
 tokened the soldier of official rank. 
 But his churchly dress, his broad hat, 
 and his smile of exceeding sweetness, 
 as if a sense of power over men were 
 swayed by a deep love for humanity, 
 gave him the air of one whose bless 
 ing came as a gift from God. 
 
 His face in the evening light was 
 calm and his poise was undisturbed. 
 Only a faint line about the mouth, 
 and a look of deeper penetration, 
 gave any hint of a stronger feeling 
 than daily controlled him. 
 
 (25)
 
 "Good-evening, Tristan Gallego. 
 Do I intrude, my son ? Where were 
 your thoughts at this moment that 
 you did not see me when my shadow 
 cut off your sunset here ?" 
 
 Tristan Gallego looked up quickly. 
 
 "Good-evening, Father Padilla," 
 he said. "You never intrude," he 
 added courteously; and then as a 
 wave of love-hunger swept over his 
 face he continued: "My thoughts 
 are all memories of Old Spain. 
 Father, I am homesick tonight." 
 
 Father Padilla had that rare pres 
 ence that speaks more sympathy 
 than words express. He sat down 
 and laid one hand gently on young 
 Tristan's shoulder. A sense of com 
 fort came in the very touch . ' ' When 
 you are homesick," he said gently, 
 "you should come to the altar in 
 your heavenly Father's house." 
 
 " It is His house wherever you are, 
 
 (26)
 
 Fra Padilla," replied Tristan, rever 
 ently. "Were you seeking me, or 
 did you come here to be alone?" 
 
 "I have a message for you, my 
 son," replied the Fra, "but you have 
 something to tell me first." 
 
 The young man turned his face 
 away and his hands gripped each 
 other. The face of the priest at that 
 moment lost all its reserve. A look 
 of loving pity swept over it. A ges 
 ture which Gallego did not note, a 
 quick movement as if he would take 
 this strong man like a child into his 
 own stronger arms to protect him. 
 But when Tristan turned to him 
 again the look had vanished and only 
 the calm self-controlled priest sat 
 there. 
 
 "You know why I came to New 
 Spain, Father?" 
 
 "Tell me," replied the priest. 
 
 (27)
 
 3ln <Ui <i])utmni 
 
 "You know the Morellos of Ma 
 drid?" 
 
 Fra Padilla's face was like gray 
 stone at that moment, and his eyes 
 looked only at the valley before him. 
 
 "You know my father, Juan Gal- 
 lego, was a spendthrift," Tristan 
 went on. 
 
 "He was a good commander of 
 men," the Fra responded quietly. 
 
 "But not a commander of money. 
 I should be rich: I am very poor. 
 I came to America to make a for 
 tune." 
 
 "You never seemed avaricious to 
 me, my son," the priest spoke gently. 
 
 ' ' No ; heaven knows I want money 
 not as all those gay young men of 
 Madrid want it, to squander on wine 
 and women and dice. When we were 
 rich, and my father was in his prime, 
 I first learned to love Teresita Mo- 
 rello. Oh, Father, you are a priest 
 
 (28)
 
 <f uttnra 
 
 and do not know what love means 
 to a fiery young Spanish heart." 
 
 Again the priest's face blanched 
 from the clear olive to a chalky gray, 
 but no hint of what lay behind that 
 face revealed itself. 
 
 "Teresita is not like the Morello 
 blood. She is beautiful as a Ma 
 donna, and gentle and loving. And 
 if she is my sun and moon and stars, 
 I also am the light of her life. She 
 did not care for my wealth when I 
 had it, nor love me less without it, 
 when my father became bankrupt. 
 
 "The Morello family are proud 
 and fond of display. They would 
 have separated us forever if they 
 could have done so. But they could 
 not do it." 
 
 Gallego's voice was deep with sup 
 pressed force. 
 
 "They have done such things," 
 said Father Padilla in a low voice. 
 
 (29)
 
 3ltt 
 
 The young Spaniard looked up 
 quickly, and his face grew stern. 
 "I tell you, Father, they could not. 
 Teresita and I love each other. Oh, 
 Father, it is so wonderful to have a 
 love like hers. It outlives poverty 
 and separation. Her father refused 
 me her hand, even admission to her 
 house, and sent her to Seville to the 
 keeping of old Count Da Gar da, his 
 friend and cousin twice or thrice re 
 moved. I followed. So would you, 
 Father, if you were in love. Da 
 Garda was indulgent to us at first, 
 and then, old and broken as he was 
 by years of reckless living, he fell in 
 love with Teresita himself, offering 
 her all his fortune with its proud old 
 name. And the Morellos, caring 
 only for gold, mind you, gave ready 
 consent." 
 
 The young man sat silent for some 
 time, watching the full moon that 
 
 (30)
 
 Sin OMfc (pmmra 
 
 was rising like a red flame over the 
 eastern horizon -line. The night was 
 cool, and a life-giving breath was in 
 the air that swept over the table 
 land. 
 
 "Father Padilla " young Tris 
 tan's voice was full of the music of 
 the Mediterranean lands - ' ' Father, 
 I can see the moonlight over Seville 
 tonight as it was that night when 
 Teresita and I sat under the vines 
 in the palace garden and plighted our 
 troth forever. Teresita's eyes were 
 like the stars and her red lips were 
 sweet to my lips as I kissed her. 
 There was a nightingale somewhere 
 up the shadowed way, and the air 
 from the Atlantic was like wine. 
 We made our life-plans together - 
 for ourselves, not for her proud, self 
 ish father, nor old Da Garda, but for 
 her and me. She would have shared 
 my poverty, but I would not permit. 
 
 (31)
 
 Slit <$& (futmra 
 
 I left her to find a fortune here where 
 so many Spanish gentlemen have 
 come for gold. And when I have 
 found it I shall go back to Seville. 
 She waits for me tonight in Old 
 Spain. Tonight at the vesper 
 hour" 
 
 The bells of the monastery at that 
 moment chimed sweetly on the even 
 ing air. The priest and Tristan 
 bowed in reverent prayer for many 
 minutes. Then the young man 
 spoke again: 
 
 "When I sailed out of the harbor 
 of San Lucar her hand was the last 
 one I held ; her kiss I carry here in 
 my heart. Tonight at the vesper 
 hour we were to renew our vows 
 though all the broad Atlantic lies 
 between us. And I am here, Father, 
 with a heart full of pictures of Spain, 
 a mind full of happy memories, and 
 a soul full of high resolve. You know 
 
 (32)
 
 that fortunes do not grow on trees 
 here, to be had for the shaking, if 
 men keep honest. I cannot take 
 back to my loved one ill-gotten gains, 
 for it was not for my wealth she 
 loved me. But I have a plan." 
 
 "What is it?" queried Juan Pa- 
 dilla. There was a tone of pain in 
 his voice, but Tristan did not note 
 it. The spell of Spain was over the 
 young lover, and his mind was far 
 away in old Seville. 
 
 ;< You know, Father, that the good 
 Mendoza is preparing even now to 
 send out an expedition to the north 
 ward, to the rich cities of Cibola and 
 the kingdom of Quivira. And the 
 noted Adelantado, Francesco Vas- 
 quez de Coronado of New Galicia, is 
 to command it. I am not of those 
 that expect vastly more than Pizarro 
 found in Peru among the Incas. 
 But there is almost uncounted wealth 
 
 (33)
 
 <f utmra 
 
 for every one who goes with Coro- 
 nado. And for the holy Caesarian 
 empire there are wide new lands, and 
 for the blessed Mother Church vast 
 riches. It is the opportunity of a 
 lifetime, and I shall join the Gover 
 nor of New Galicia when he comes 
 hither in a few weeks." 
 
 Another pause, broken only by 
 the sounds of evening. Then Gallego 
 spoke : 
 
 "This conquest of the north will 
 soon be accomplished, and then 
 home to beautiful Spain and Teresita 
 and love. Oh, Fra Padilla, give me 
 your blessing. I am sad and happy, 
 both in one, tonight, for memory and 
 hope play about the edge of a lone 
 liness that absence will bring. But 
 bless me, Father." 
 
 "Peace be with thee, my son," 
 said the holy Father as he laid his 
 hands gently on the young man's 
 
 (34)
 
 (jhrimra 
 
 bowed head ; and in the silence that 
 followed, only the rippling evening 
 breeze and the subdued sounds from 
 the valley broke the stillness. And 
 then the good man spoke. It was 
 said of him that no other man in 
 North America had a voice at once 
 so sweet and deep and full of power 
 as Fra Juan Padilla's voice. 
 
 "My son, I bring you a message 
 tonight. It is not for your hope and 
 love and ambition, but for your en 
 durance. Before I give it all to you 
 I must tell you a story. It is short 
 and not uncommon, and you will 
 understand it. Pedro the courier 
 brought letters from the East an 
 hour and a half ago. You must have 
 been on your way up here then or you 
 would have heard the shouting in 
 the plaza." 
 
 "Yes, Father, I had a tryst to 
 keep, although it was only a tryst of 
 
 (35)
 
 in 
 
 time, for, as I told you, the one I 
 keep it with is far over the sea." 
 
 " Pedro brought me many mes 
 sages," the Fra continued. "Some 
 were for me alone, and some were 
 for me to deliver to others. One 
 was for you." 
 
 A sudden fear seized Tristan. An 
 involuntary quiver passed through 
 his every fibre. But the Fra's gentle 
 voice continued: "It is more than 
 fifteen hundred years ago tonight 
 that the Son of the Blessed Virgin 
 was born. In all these fifteen hun 
 dred years men have but slowly 
 learned His message the message 
 of self-sacrifice. The younger we 
 are the harder it is to understand." 
 
 "Oh, Father!" Tristan's voice 
 was sharp with dread. 
 
 "My boy" there was a strength 
 in the very sound of the good priest's 
 tone "let me tell you a story, 
 
 (36)
 
 the story a man does not tell except 
 in the sacredest hours of his life. 
 Such an hour is here. You are not 
 the only lover who ever held mem 
 ories of Old Spain. Your own story 
 was acted out before you were born. 
 There was a young commander in 
 the Spanish army, rich, happy, and 
 prosperous. Too rich, too happy, 
 and too prosperous, for the courtiers 
 envied his success, and the king 
 would have had his wealth. He 
 loved a beautiful girl whose name 
 was Nina. I do not believe your 
 Teresita is more lovely than her 
 than this Nina, who is old enough 
 now to be her mother." 
 
 "Teresita's mother is dead," said 
 Tristan. 
 
 "I know is she? Well. This 
 Nina loved the young officer as 
 your senorita loved you. I'll make 
 this story brief. The jealous cour- 
 
 (37)
 
 In 
 
 tiers, one of whom was madly in love 
 with Sefiorita Nina, by such tricks 
 as a king's courtiers can play de 
 ceived the beautiful girl with lies 
 only Satan could invent for man. 
 They could not deceive the general 
 of the army, for he knew his young 
 officer too well. But the beloved of 
 this young man's soul they persuaded 
 to the belief that her lover was false, 
 that he had lost his fortune at cards, 
 and that he had already cast her off. 
 Sefiorita Nina was too proud to die 
 of a broken heart. When the army 
 came home from a long campaign 
 she was the wife of the man who had 
 lied to her against her lover. Ex 
 ulting in his success, he had boldly 
 declared to her his scheme for win 
 ning her. Sefiora Nina came alone 
 one sad night to the home of her 
 lover, and in an agony of soul she 
 told him all the story, of which 
 
 (38)
 
 Sin <& <f irimra 
 
 he until that moment knew noth 
 ing. 
 
 " In one brief hour the light of his 
 life went out. He was young and 
 rich and popular, and some said, 
 handsome. But for him the world 
 had lost its charm. What passed 
 between him and the woman he 
 loved as madly as you love, my son, 
 only the God of heaven knows. It 
 was a sacred hour, with no sin in it. 
 Then Sefiora Nina went back to her 
 villa near Madrid, and the young 
 man found the only open door 
 the door of the sanctuary. He en 
 tered the priesthood of the holy 
 church." 
 
 "What became of his wealth?" 
 Gallego asked, eagerly. 
 
 "He put it away." 
 
 " In the church ? How good of 
 him! But by what name was he 
 known in the holy orders?" 
 
 (39)
 
 3I 
 
 "They called him, Fra Padilla" 
 replied the priest quietly. 
 
 "Oh, Father Juan! Could that 
 have been you?" cried Tristan, 
 starting up and staring at the holy 
 man. 
 
 "Sit down, Tristan. I have yet 
 my message. The same old story 
 is acted again in Spain. The letters 
 bring me word tonight that Count 
 Da Garda and Senorita Teresita are 
 to be married on this Christmas Eve. 
 Bear up, my son. I know your 
 Teresita's heart is as true to you as 
 my Nina's was true. Some power 
 has overruled her own. Bear up. 
 I have listened to the same story." 
 
 But Tristan had fallen forward, 
 and lay in the strong arms of Father 
 Padilla. 
 
 "Only," the priest continued, "I 
 heard it from her own white lips. 
 My son, when earthly loves fail us 
 
 (40)
 
 3ftt <U> (f uttrtra 
 
 the love of the Son of the Blessed 
 Virgin stands sure. The doors of 
 the holy church close never against 
 us. Come now to her altars and 
 consecrate yourself as I have done." 
 Tristan Gallego lifted his head and 
 sat erect, staring out at the valley 
 with eyes that saw nothing. The 
 moon was full in the heavens now, 
 and the richness of a semi-tropical 
 night in all its weird beauty was 
 about these two men with whom 
 Fate had played so grimly. Long 
 they sat together. Faint sounds of 
 merry-making floated up from the 
 little walled town, but neither heard 
 them. At length the young man rose, 
 and stood erect. Years seemed to 
 have passed over his head since with 
 springing step he had climbed to 
 this height such a little while before. 
 His face in the moonlight was hard 
 and cold. The priest stood up beside 
 
 (41)
 
 3ftt (Mfc (ptrtirtnt 
 
 him, taller by full two inches, broader 
 and more powerfully built. 
 
 "You will come with me?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Tristan turned his dry, burning 
 eyes on the good man's face. When 
 he spoke all the music had left his 
 voice. 
 
 " I have only one aim in life. I 
 must get money." 
 
 "And after that?" 
 
 "There is no 'after that.' I shall 
 go with Coronado, not as I had 
 meant. O God ! that I might leave 
 here all my memories of Spain. I 
 shall not die nor wither away about 
 the accursed altars." He laughed 
 harshly. " I must be a man of ac 
 tion. I shall be rich, and power will 
 be mine. I say curse the church 
 for all the help it is to me." He 
 ground his teeth in bitterness of 
 spirit. 
 
 (42)
 
 (futmnt 
 
 The good father put a firm hand 
 on Gallego's arm. 
 
 " Go to what lengths you will, my 
 son, the holy sanctuary will still 
 be before you, and a power beyond 
 all you may hold will yet draw you 
 upward. But your penance will be 
 heavy. Let us go down now. This 
 is the first holy-night in your new 
 life, but not your last, my boy, not 
 your last." 
 
 The two went down together. In 
 the heart of one was a growing love 
 and pity; in the other's heart, a 
 fiercely gathering hatred toward all 
 the world. 
 
 At the western wall an Indian 
 slave girl darted out of the shadow 
 at their approach, and sprang to 
 ward the gateway. In her haste 
 she tripped, and fell against young 
 Gallego. As he caught her by the 
 arm to lift her up her frightened face 
 
 (43)
 
 shone full in the moonlight. He 
 stared down at it a moment, then 
 hurled her toward the gate with all 
 his might. 
 
 " She is one of the captives Friar 
 Marcos brought back from the north. 
 I've often seen her. But her eyes 
 looked just then like Teresita's when 
 her father drove me from his villa 
 at Madrid. Why should even an 
 Indian slave in the New World call 
 up a high-born sefiorita of Old Spain ! 
 Shall I ever forget?" 
 
 "I have never forgotten," replied 
 Padilla, "nor have I ever wished to 
 forget." 
 
 " Good-night, Father, " and Gallego 
 strode through the gate without turn 
 ing his head or asking for a blessing. 
 The world had in it no peace and 
 goodwill for him in that tragic hour 
 of grief and loss. 
 
 "Good-night, Tristan," said Fra 
 
 (44)
 
 3ltt 
 
 Padilla. He was bending over the 
 girl where she had fallen by the gate. 
 Lifting her gently, he questioned her 
 in the broken Spanish that the In 
 dians learned readily. 
 
 " Come, Natana, why were you be 
 yond the walls at this hour?" 
 
 "Oh, Fra Padilla," returned the 
 captive slave, in the same tongue, "I 
 want my own people, far, far away." 
 She waved her arm toward the north. 
 
 " You could never find them alone, 
 Natana. You would perish in the 
 desert. Come with me tonight." 
 
 "Oh, Father, take me to them. 
 Take me to Isopete, my my sweet 
 heart, you would say it, Isopete. 
 Natana is heavy-heart tonight." 
 
 "Come," said the Fra gently. 
 "Some day I will take you, but not 
 now. It may be I shall go north 
 with Coronado. Then you may go 
 with me." 
 
 (45)
 
 Sin 
 
 At the door of the church the two 
 met Tristan, standing like a carved 
 support of the archway. Inside the 
 church chants were sounding, and 
 dim candles cast a pale radiance on 
 the crucifix and the image of the 
 Virgin Madonna. Leading the slave 
 by one hand and the proud crushed 
 Tristan by the other, Fra Padilla 
 passed into the church. 
 
 "Here," he said in voice of bene 
 diction, " is the anchor to your souls. 
 Peace be with you." 
 
 Tristan Gallego turned only a grim 
 face toward the holy altar, unsoft- 
 ened by any line of tenderness, but 
 the slave girl's wondering dark eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 And so the Christmas Eve went by 
 in Compostela three centuries and 
 a half ago. 
 
 (46)
 
 western sea was made 
 the plains was dug beside 
 JAMES W. STEELE. 
 
 Y the end of the Christ 
 mas festivities in all New 
 Spain only one subject 
 was talked of the expe 
 dition to Quivira. Francesco Vas- 
 quez de Coronado, Governor of New 
 Galicia, was rich and popular. His 
 name alone, as commander, would 
 have given prestige to the under 
 taking. The discovery of the Klon 
 dike mines, the California gold fever 
 of '49, were mild and inane in their 
 influence on the popular mind com 
 pared with the feverish excitement 
 of that time. Mendoza's immense 
 
 (47)
 
 3ln (Pto (firitrira 
 
 levy upon the province of New Spain 
 for supplies and equipment almost 
 bankrupted the public treasury. 
 But nobody thought of complaining. 
 It seemed a sin not to do more. 
 Every day new demands were made 
 and every day new stores poured 
 into Mendoza's hands. To the vice 
 roy it meant the quest of what 
 should place him in rank with Cortez 
 and Pizarro. It meant the fabulous 
 increase of his provincial resources, 
 and it meant the temporary removal 
 from New Spain of many gay young 
 spendthrifts to whom the New World 
 had been a disappointment and 
 through whose troublesome med 
 dling uncomfortable reports were 
 seeping into the king's ears across 
 the sea. 
 
 To the young knights the expe 
 dition was the realization of their 
 wildest dreams of adventure and 
 
 (48)
 
 (jtotmra 
 
 fortune, release from debt, and a 
 future of luxurious living. To the 
 Commander, Coronado, there was 
 a higher purpose than these in the 
 effort. He was a Spanish patriot 
 and a devout Catholic. The con 
 quest of Quivira would enrich his 
 king and extend the domain of the 
 Church. In his heart he never 
 doubted the future. Had not Pi- 
 zarro followed the Indian south 
 ward and found fabulous wealth ? 
 And were not all the stories of 
 Quivira alike a land whose cities 
 were paved with gold, whose palaces 
 flashed with jewels, a land of bar 
 baric splendor whose heathen peo 
 ples must be brought into the bounds 
 of Christendom? 
 
 The expedition was to start from 
 Compostela late in February. The 
 two months between Christmas and 
 this time were busy ones for Tristan 
 
 (49)
 
 Sin (Plfc (jputmra 
 
 Gallego. His equipment, like many 
 another Spanish knight's, was paid 
 for by money borrowed from the 
 public treasury. In all Gallego 's 
 possessions only one weapon was 
 his own the sword of his father, 
 Juan Gallego, which he had brought 
 with him from Spain. How little 
 he had cared for it save as his 
 father's weapon in his first days in 
 the New World. 
 
 ' ' I shall hang it in the hall of my 
 villa when I go home," he had said 
 to himself many times. The sword 
 has little to do with a heart like 
 mine, where love is supreme." 
 
 The memory of all this was a 
 mockery to him now. The 23rd of 
 February, the day appointed for the 
 starting, fell on Monday. On the 
 Saturday night before, Pedro, the 
 courier, had come again on his jaded 
 little mule with messages from the 
 
 (50)
 
 3(tt OMfc < uttrira 
 
 Gulf towns. The sealed packet for 
 Fra Padilla this time carried no 
 message for others. On this Mon 
 day morning, before the gay caval 
 cade began its triumphal march to 
 the north, Pedro, with secret mes 
 sages from Fra Juan Padilla to men 
 of power in Spain, was hurrying 
 eastward over the rough way he 
 had covered only two days before. 
 
 On this Monday morning Com 
 pos tela was in gala dress. Every 
 house had the flag of Spain flying 
 over it. Bands of music beat the 
 air. Crowds gathered in the streets 
 and a joyous spirit filled all the place. 
 
 It was a splendid sight, that com 
 pany that marched away from old 
 Compostela on that February morn 
 ing more than three hundred fifty 
 years ago, with Francesco de Coro- 
 nado at the head. Two hundred 
 and sixty cavaliers, seventy foot-sol- 
 
 (51)
 
 3ltt <U> (pntoira 
 
 diers, and a thousand Indian attend 
 ants, guides, body guards and serv 
 ing-men. The sun shone down on 
 gay-colored scarfs and polished steel 
 armor and glittering swords. On the 
 mules with their jeweled bridles and 
 the tricked-out line of pack animals 
 with their burdens of supplies. 
 
 Droves of lowing cattle, and flocks 
 of bleating sheep, relays of supplies 
 of every kind, had preceded the 
 marching force, as with the magnifi 
 cent display of an Old World pageant 
 it swept out of the western gate and 
 passed from view around the shoulder 
 of the table-land. 
 
 As the gates closed behind the 
 last of the cavalcade, an Indian girl 
 sprang out between them. Quickly 
 forcing her way into the midst of 
 the company following, she was lost 
 to view. Only the Indian slave 
 captive, Natana, strong and useful, 
 
 (52)
 
 2ftt <Pft <f mrnra 
 
 but slaves were plenty let her 
 go- 
 One night, after many days of 
 marching, Fra Padilla was sitting 
 silently by his camp-fire. Crouching 
 Indian fashion on the opposite side 
 was Natana the slave girl. Sud 
 denly Tristan Gallego appeared, and 
 sat down beside the priest. Natana 
 cowered in fear with her great black 
 eyes fastened on the young man's 
 face. 
 
 "Never fear, Natana," said the 
 priest in the Indian tongue. "He 
 has a sweetheart too, far away; 
 like you, he is lonely." 
 
 Natana's eyes lost their terror, 
 and a look of sympathy and intense 
 interest swept over her face. 
 
 "Who is that accursed woman, 
 Father ? ' ' asked Gallego. ' ' There are 
 scores of Indian women in this com 
 pany, but always I see this one." 
 
 (53)
 
 3ln (ito (putmra 
 
 JS," It is'Natana, a Quiviran captive, 
 Tristan/ ; She has a lover up north. 
 And she begged me to take her when 
 we left Compostela. She is the 
 brightest Indian I have ever known. 
 Somehow she seems like our Spanish 
 peasantry." 
 
 Tristan gazed long into the eyes 
 of Natana looking into his eyes as 
 she sat beyond the smoldering fire. 
 For the first time since the Christ 
 mas Eve his face softened by ever 
 so faint a hint. At that moment a 
 comradeship began between them in 
 that invisible, unuttered compact of 
 souls where the glance of the eye or 
 the touch of the hand says what the 
 mind may be long in framing into 
 words. 
 
 "Be kind to her, Tristan. I am 
 gentle with all lovers, else I had ex 
 communicated you when you cursed 
 the church. It may do your own 
 
 (54)
 
 3ftt $to (jhtrotra 
 
 heart good to have even a heathen 
 captive to be good to." 
 
 "Her eyes are so like Teresita's," 
 murmured Tristan under his breath. 
 Fra Padilla did not hear, but he 
 understood. 
 
 In the old Spanish manuscripts 
 the story of that long and difficult 
 journey toward Quivira is imper 
 fectly told. Months went by before 
 the force of Coronado had finally 
 come to a halt in the pueblo village 
 of Tewa. Months of slow grinding 
 down of grandeur. Little by little 
 the glitter was lost; luxury gave 
 way to comfort only, and comfort 
 was close now to necessity. The 
 seven fabulous cities had proved to 
 be only a mud-walled village. With 
 the changes had grown a change of 
 spirit. High hopes had fallen to 
 grim determination, and ambition 
 
 (55)
 
 3ltt 
 
 was turned to angry disappointment. 
 It was a lawless band that the in 
 domitable Coronado held rule over 
 during the long cold winter in Tewa. 
 The reckless vices and inhuman 
 cruelty of the Spanish knights in 
 that heathen land are by our twenti 
 eth-century standards too evil for 
 printed words. In all this, Tristan 
 Gallego, moody and hard-hearted, 
 took little part. Though changed as 
 night from day from the sunny- 
 spirited, affectionate young man who 
 had come a year before with fond 
 hopes to the New World, a certain 
 high-born sense of justice and honor 
 controlled him. He would have 
 crushed down to death whatever 
 came between him and his one 
 avaricious aim now, but he was not 
 wantonly cruel. 
 
 In the idle days of slow marching 
 and slow waiting, Tristan Gallego 
 
 (56)
 
 Slit 
 
 had had only one pastime. Natana, 
 the servant of Fra Padilla, was the 
 one soul in all that company besides 
 the priest for whom he had a kind 
 word. As a proud Spanish gentle 
 man he ignored her, but as a broken 
 hearted lover her presence fed a 
 gnawing hunger in his soul. 
 
 There was much for the Indian 
 women to do in that expedition. All 
 day long they labored. The heavy 
 and light camp work fell on them, 
 and they knew little of the com 
 mander and his associates, whose 
 body servants were Indian men. It 
 was only at night, when the work 
 was done, that Natana came and 
 sat by Fra Padilla's fire and listened 
 to him and the handsome young 
 knight, who sat late together. And 
 sometimes the good father was called 
 away, leaving Tristan and the girl 
 alone. Then Tristan sat beside her 
 
 (57)
 
 3ltt 091& (guttnra 
 
 and told her stories of the seas and 
 of Old Spain beyond them. Some 
 times his arms were about her and 
 her great dark eyes looked inno 
 cently into his as she listened. Then 
 he would kiss her good-night and 
 call her his little heathen sister. 
 Albeit the strength of her lithe arm 
 was a match for his own. Then 
 Natana would lie awake for hours 
 looking up at the stars and longing 
 for Isopete, while the hot tears 
 washed her brown cheeks. But the 
 daylight again saw only a grim Span 
 ish knight in the front ranks, while 
 far in the rear an Indian captive 
 toiled at the tasks the women must 
 perform. 
 
 One moonlit evening, out on the 
 far Arizona plains, when Tristan had 
 sat very late by Natana's side, she 
 suddenly shivered as with fright. 
 
 (.68)
 
 "What is it, little Pagan?" asked 
 Tristan. 
 
 "I'm afraid of him, Good Heart." 
 This was the name she had given to 
 Gallego. 
 
 "Afraid of whom?" queried Tris 
 tan. 
 
 " Of the guide you call ' The Turk,' 
 who has been with us all this moon. 
 He is to lead us to Quivira. He 
 lives toward the sunrise. He came 
 to me last night and wanted me to 
 go away with him and be his woman 
 in his tepee. He promised me gold 
 and jewels and furs. He said he 
 would lead you away from Quivira 
 where you would be utterly lost. 
 I told him I would tell you, and he 
 held up a big knife. He said he 
 hated you, Good-Heart; that you 
 told lies on him to the great Coro- 
 nado, and he wanted your scalp to 
 
 (59)
 
 3ftt to <f mtrira 
 
 hang in his tepee. Oh, Good-Heart ! 
 is your sword sharp ? " 
 
 Gallego laughed softly, musically, 
 as he was wont to do in sunny Spain, 
 and held up his sword, the sword of 
 his father, Juan Gallego. 
 
 "You see this sword, and its in 
 scription, 
 
 NO ME SAQUES SIN RAZON. 
 NO ME ENBAINES SIN HONOR. 
 
 That means, 'Draw me not without 
 reason. Sheath me not without 
 honor.' There is no reason why I 
 should draw it for this Turk, nor 
 honor in running it through his 
 heart. I believe he is a liar, and is 
 deceiving the good Coronado. So 
 thinks our other guide, a fine big 
 Indian from the north. I cannot 
 remember his name. He has been 
 with us since we reached the plains, 
 and to my mind he is more reliable 
 than this Turk, who is a rascal. 
 
 (60)
 
 There is jealousy between them al 
 ready. But I would not spoil my 
 polished sword with the Turk. I'll 
 choke him or grind him with my 
 heel like a rattlesnake! Do not 
 fear him, little sister." And Gallego 
 gathered her close in his arms and 
 kissed her. 
 
 When he rose to go he put one 
 arm around Natana, and turned her 
 face full to the moonlight. But it 
 was of Teresita that he was think 
 ing. 
 
 Out in the light, coiled behind a 
 yucca plant, was the Indian guide, 
 Turk. As Gallego strode past him 
 he reared his head like a serpent 
 about to strike. Involuntarily the 
 Spaniard's hand sought his sword. 
 It lay by the camp-fire where he had 
 sat with Natana. With a quick 
 spring he caught the powerful In 
 dian by the throat with a grip like 
 
 (61)
 
 Sin 
 
 steel. The Indian writhed, gurgled 
 and fell half strangled to the ground, 
 where Gallego kicked him contemptu 
 ously aside. 
 
 "Here, Good Heart, is your sword. 
 Will he kill you ? ' ' Natana had seen 
 the struggle and had leaped to the 
 Spaniard's side. 
 
 "Not he. I was just a second too 
 ready. I do not need that sword 
 for him. When I choke him again 
 he will never wake up. Here, you 
 beast, get you to your place." 
 
 The Turk turned a look of malig 
 nant hate upon Tristan and walked 
 away. Under his breath he was 
 muttering such vows of vengeance 
 as only an Indian can make who has 
 been disgraced before a woman he 
 desires, and beaten by the physical 
 cunning of an enemy. 
 
 "Little Pagan, keep you close 
 among the women, away from Coro- 
 
 (62)
 
 lit <lb < uttnra 
 
 nado's people. The Turk might do 
 you harm. He is a snake, and will 
 come to his own one of these days." 
 
 Again Gallego bade the Indian girl 
 good-night, and for the first time he 
 watched her till she had reached her 
 own sleeping-place among the women 
 and had rolled her blanket about her. 
 Her dreams that night were of Isopete 
 and the tepees by the river in the 
 fertile lands far to the north. 
 
 The Turk had walked straight to 
 the sleeping-place of Coronado's ser 
 vants and guides. His moccasined 
 feet made no noise as he passed 
 among the prostrate forms. Paus 
 ing before the most powerfully built 
 man among them, he stared down at 
 him for many minutes. 
 
 "So you are Isopete of Quivira, 
 who thinks I am leading these white 
 monsters away from Quivira. You 
 told me your Natana was a captive 
 
 (63)
 
 3Jn 
 
 somewhere south and you might find 
 her sometime through these men. 
 You fool! Your Nat ana is here, an 
 arrow-shot away. She will not come 
 to you again. You must kill this 
 Gallego for me, because he has stolen 
 your Natana. And then I'll kill you 
 because you are in my way. And 
 Natana shall live in my tepee by the 
 big river, far, far eastward in the 
 deep forests." 
 
 So ran the cunning mind of the 
 Turk. Presently he pulled lightly 
 at Isopete's blanket. The big In 
 dian sat up, wide awake, in a mo 
 ment. The Turk silently motioned 
 to him to follow. Isopete rose and 
 glided after him. Some rods away 
 from the camp a deep draw cut the 
 ground. Behind its steep bank the 
 two guides sat down, Indian fash 
 ion, in silence. 
 
 At length the Turk spoke. Even 
 
 (64)
 
 Isopete, with all an Indian's insight, 
 caught no trick in his words. 
 
 " Your Natana is not south she 
 is here on the far side of the camp 
 with the women." 
 
 Isopete sprang up eagerly. 
 
 " Sit, Isopete. You fool ! Natana 
 is not yours now. I saw her tonight, 
 as I sat behind a yucca bush. That 
 pale-face they call Gallego was with 
 her. His arms around her, so." 
 The Turk clasped the empty air 
 dramatically. "And he kissed her 
 many times. I heard him tell her 
 of you, and she only clung to him. 
 She is afraid you will take her from 
 him. She will die first. I tried to 
 tell her you were here, but this 
 Gallego caught me, so." 
 
 The Turk's murderous fingers 
 closed on Isopete 's throat a moment. 
 
 " Does a Quivira brave love re 
 venge? Is Quivira a coward ? Watch. 
 
 (65)
 
 3(tt 
 
 You will see them together. Don't 
 let her see you. He will kill you 
 so." Again the fingers sought Iso- 
 pete's bare throat. ;< You watch. 
 Then you kill him. I will help you. 
 But do not let Natana know you. 
 She stays among the women. She 
 serves that big Medicine-man Padilla, 
 for he is good to every one. She has 
 never been near this part of the 
 camp. You know this Gallego. He 
 is cruel. He hates all Indians and 
 all Spanish too except that Medicine 
 man Padilla, and Natana. You pol 
 ished his sword for him yesterday. 
 Keep it bright, Isopete, for his own 
 blood." 
 
 Isopete rose steadily. Not a fea 
 ture gave expression to his thought. 
 The old story, twice made in Spain, 
 was writing itself out for him on 
 these far-away plains of a desolate 
 unknown land. 
 
 (66)
 
 "You are a liar," he said to the 
 Turk in an even voice. 
 
 A look of cunning swept the Turk's 
 face. 
 
 " Go and see yourself, you coward 
 wolf of the prairie ! Any night I can 
 show you if Padilla is away. Beware 
 of Padilla. He is more than man. 
 But kill this Gallego, or go pound 
 maize in the tepees with the women." 
 
 The summer of 1541 dragged out 
 its hours. Day by day Coronado's 
 company found itself weaker, farther 
 from home and supplies, and facing 
 ever a wider and more desolate 
 plain, a never-ending monotony of 
 weariness and starvation, beyond 
 which lay Quivira. To Coronado 
 they were days of grim pursuit of a 
 losing purpose. To the knights they 
 were days of accursed failure and de 
 spair. To Gallego they were what all 
 
 (67)
 
 3ltt <$U> (fmmra 
 
 his future promised a blank wait 
 ing for his sole desire gold. To 
 the captive girl they were filled with 
 longing for the green valleys of 
 Quivira, and for Isopete. The guides 
 found hours of misery and hate. 
 Only Fra Juan Padilla possessed his 
 soul in peace and kept his hand in 
 the right hand of God. 
 
 For all his declaration, the Turk's 
 poison had done its work on Iso 
 pete. The cunning Indian had found 
 time to spy upon Gallego. Brown 
 as the brown earth, he had lain near 
 the red fire unnoted and had watched 
 Gallego bid good-night to his little 
 heathen sister, not as a brother says 
 good-night, but as a fond lover who 
 lingers to give a gentle word and a 
 caressing touch to lip and brow. 
 
 Though Quivira lay to the north, 
 the Turk led the little band steadily 
 eastward. He avoided Gallego, for 
 
 (68)
 
 the Indian is an inherent coward be 
 fore a superior race. But no motion 
 of Natana's was lost to him. And as 
 he was a craven before the knight, he 
 was a braggart before the girl. 
 
 " We shall be so far from Quivira 
 they will all perish," he had boasted 
 to Natana. " Then you will go with 
 me to where the forests are full of 
 shade and no more deserts are any 
 where. If you but say one little 
 word of this to that pale-face in 
 armor, I'll kill him before you." 
 
 So the Turk threatened, and Na 
 tana, fearing for the Spaniard, kept 
 her counsel, till at length she dared 
 to risk fate in her fear and trouble. 
 Sitting at the feet of Fra Padilla one 
 night after a wearisome day of toil 
 ing over barren wastes, she told him 
 all the Turk's story. 
 
 "Go, good Father, to Coronado 
 and tell him tonight. The Turk will 
 
 (69)
 
 Sin OPtft (jpfmra 
 
 kill Good Heart if you wait till to 
 morrow." So pleaded Natana. 
 
 "Tell me, my child," said Padilla, 
 looking steadily at her face, "is it 
 for him you would do this, or do you 
 want Quivira and your lover?" 
 
 "I would save Good Heart," re 
 plied the girl simply, " but I want 
 - my Isopete. Father, shall I never 
 see Quivira again ? " 
 
 Fra Padilla led Natana away to the 
 tent of Coronado. Sitting with him 
 were Tristan Gallego, and a score of 
 other Spaniards. Crouching outside 
 the door were the two guides. In 
 the simple words of the lowly faith 
 ful the girl made known to the com 
 mander the whole perfidious plan of 
 the wily guide. 
 
 "Why do you tell me all this?" 
 queried Coronado. " You are a cap 
 tive now. If we were lost you might 
 be free." 
 
 (70)
 
 3ltt 
 
 "To save his life," said Natana, 
 pointing to Gallego. "He is good 
 to me." 
 
 " Oh, ho ! said the commander with 
 a smile. 
 
 "Like any other woman, she is 
 concealing her real love," Padilla 
 thought to himself. 
 
 Outside the tent the Turk laughed 
 softly, but the other guide stood 
 erect and still as stone. The coun 
 cil dismissed Natana, who beyond 
 the tent door came face to face with 
 Isopete. She did not cry out nor 
 faint. She was true Indian. But 
 she stretched out her arms implor 
 ingly, her face full of joy. 
 
 Isopete folded his own across his 
 broad chest and looked down at her 
 coldly. 
 
 "So this is how I find you, Na 
 tana, begging for the life of a white 
 man. Go to him. I want you no 
 
 (71)
 
 more. I guide this company north 
 ward now. When we reach Quivira, 
 see what comes then." 
 
 "Have you been long here, Iso- 
 pete?" 
 
 " Days and days and days." 
 
 "Why did you stay away from 
 me?" 
 
 "I did not want you," said Iso- 
 pete coldly; and without another 
 word he strode toward his command 
 er's tent. 
 
 At sunrise next day a new order 
 began. Almost a year and a half 
 had slipped by since Coronado's band 
 had begun its march, wildly believ 
 ing that conquest and wealth and 
 honor were only a few weeks ahead. 
 On this May morning only thirty res 
 olute men, a handful of Indian serv 
 ants and the good priest Padilla set 
 out alone to find Quivira, the van 
 ishing land of their ambition's 
 
 (72)
 
 3( (to (immra 
 
 dreams. The remainder of the com 
 pany who had withstood the hard 
 life of the desert plains turned back 
 to await their commander's return 
 in the Tewa pueblo beyond the Rio 
 Grande. 
 
 Sad and moody were those thirty 
 men, clinging to a forlorn hope. 
 Day after day they moved north 
 ward. At the head of the marching 
 column was Isopete, the big Quivira 
 guide. The Turk, guarded and in 
 chains, was a disgraced captive now, 
 whose fate was foretold by Gallego 
 when he said : 
 
 " When I choke you again you will 
 never wake up." 
 
 Natana still clung to Fra Padilla. 
 She had no joy in Quivira without 
 her loved Isopete, but there was no 
 where else for her to go now. And 
 the Christ whom Padilla had taught 
 to her became a reality here. In her 
 
 (73)
 
 hopelessness and sorrow the hold on 
 His love who had also suffered was 
 her strength. 
 
 Where the Cimarron river bends 
 to the north, leaving an arc of its 
 course inside the bounds of Kansas, 
 to the southward dip of the wide 
 Arkansas wandering aimlessly away 
 to the east, there are today great 
 stretches of grazing-lands, cut here 
 and there with fields of alfalfa and 
 wheat and forage. Three hundred 
 years and more ago, when Coronado's 
 thirty knights on lean and hungry 
 mules came riding hither, there was 
 here little more than sand-dunes, 
 yucca and loco plants and straggling 
 wild plum bushes. Eagerly these 
 men sought for a fertile land and the 
 spires of splendid cities. Wearily 
 the days dragged on, and only sand 
 and glaring sunshine, and the monot- 
 
 (74)
 
 Itt l& futmra 
 
 ony of an unbroken horizon-line 
 made up the landscape. Like the 
 snow-blindness of the frozen Yukon 
 valley became this yellow blistering 
 flare to the eyes of the straggling 
 train. 
 
 And then one day late in June 
 across the flat sandbars of this wide 
 eastward-going river the white tents 
 of an Indian village shone through 
 the thin branches of a cottonwood 
 grove. 
 
 Isopete leaped at the sight, and 
 gave one long weird cry that sounded 
 far across the wilds. 
 
 "This is Quivira," he exclaimed, 
 falling at the feet of Coronado. 
 "These are my people come to the 
 bounds of our land to hunt. There 
 are our tepees, with white skin covers 
 Two days, three days, maybe, and 
 we shall be in the heart of Quivira." 
 
 The Spanish commander stood si- 
 
 (75)
 
 3to (Plfc <f mmra 
 
 lent beside his tired steed, with eyes 
 intent on the fertile stretch of prairie 
 that seemed to lap over the edge of 
 the north in its level sweep. Beside 
 him stood Juan Padilla, and beyond 
 the priest was the Indian girl, whose 
 dark eyes were full of pathos. A 
 little farther away Tristan Gallego 
 sat on his mule. Behind him were 
 the others of the company in broken 
 array. 
 
 Coronado lifted high his sword, 
 and spoke reverently: 
 
 " In the name of the King of Spain 
 I claim this land, its people, its 
 wealth, and all its increase, now and 
 for all future years." 
 
 Fra Juan Padilla raised his right 
 hand, the sacred crucifix held high 
 above him. 
 
 " In the name of the Holy Church, 
 in the name of the Saviour who died 
 upon the Cross," he said solemnly, 
 
 (76)
 
 "I claim the souls of this people, 
 this land, its wealth and all its in 
 crease that shall build here a king 
 dom for all eternity. Now and for 
 ever I baptize it no more heathen, 
 but Christian. Amen!" 
 
 Tristan Gallego had dropped from 
 his steed and stood a moment beside 
 Nat ana. Pushing her gently aside, 
 with such a touch as one would give 
 a pet dog, he stood beside Padilla. 
 The motion was not lost on Isopete. 
 He stepped behind the girl and in a 
 low voice he said in his cold even tone 
 of anger : 
 
 " Stay you close by the good man. 
 We are in Quivira now. Keep to the 
 priest if you would save yourself." 
 
 Natana turned a startled face to 
 ward the guide. Love, fear, courage 
 and self-sacrifice were all in that face. 
 It stirred the bitter brooding heart 
 of Isopete. Almost he relented. 
 
 (77)
 
 3ltt 
 
 But that gentle act of Gallego's held 
 him back. He had seen the wanton 
 brutality of Spanish gentlemen to 
 ward Indian women ; too much had 
 he seen in this long journey. Galle 
 go's touch could mean only love and 
 protecting care for Natana. The 
 Turk was right. Curse him ! 
 
 In her simple heart Natana had 
 hoped that Quivira would soften 
 Isopete's heart toward her. She 
 did not know she had hoped till now 
 on the edge of the promised land he 
 was still bitter and unloving. 
 
 The daily service of the camp for 
 Fra Padilla had taught her much of 
 civilization in addition to what she 
 had learned in Compostela. She was 
 far from being a mere ignorant sav 
 age now, and she began to see deeper 
 into Isopete's heart than he saw him 
 self. 
 
 "You will know some day, Iso- 
 
 (-78 )
 
 itt <to 
 
 pete," she said in a gentle voice. "I 
 can wait . All women learn to wait . ' ' 
 
 The camp-fires that night burned 
 at the base of a huge rock cliff whose 
 perpendicular face stood out boldly 
 above the river that wound around 
 its edges. On the opposite side it 
 sloped steeply down into the plain. 
 A strange stone outcrop it was in 
 this open prairie, destined to stand 
 out through many coming years as 
 a landmark and point of historic 
 fame. Christened later from the 
 fierce fight of the wild Panis, it gained 
 the name it was destined to keep for 
 all future time, the well-known name 
 of PAWNEE ROCK. 
 
 On this clear starlit night Tristan 
 Gallego's mind was full of unbidden 
 memories. Months of bitterness and 
 hardship and disappointment had not 
 driven Teresita from his mind, and 
 life was before him. He seemed to 
 
 (79)
 
 3fo to 
 
 have been thinking through all these 
 months that life would all be done 
 with when he had reached Quivira. 
 He could not endure himself alone. 
 Seeking out Natana, he led her away 
 to the crest of the cliff of rock, where 
 the two sat down in the dim light 
 with their faces toward the steep 
 perpendicular front above the river. 
 
 "See, Natana, what a citadel this 
 is. Ten men could fight back a hun 
 dred here. It is Nature's own for 
 tress. In the years to come, when 
 the people of Europe shall have over 
 ruled the desert, there will be many 
 a tragedy about this rock. The hos 
 tile tribes could not reach them here, 
 nor would their arrows match the 
 white man's guns." 
 
 " But where would the white man 
 get water?" asked Natana. 
 
 " Sure enough, little Pagan, where 
 
 (80)
 
 iftt <&tt (puimra 
 
 would he ? If I were held here would 
 you bring me water ? " 
 
 " I would save you, Good Heart." 
 
 A quick movement behind them, 
 and over the shoulders of each a 
 lasso was deftly thrown, binding the 
 arms of each down in a moment. 
 With a lightning swiftness Gallego's 
 feet were tied, and with a shove his 
 body was hurled over the edge of the 
 rock. 
 
 The next moment Natana was 
 caught up in Isopete's strong arms 
 and borne swiftly down the slope. 
 Once only his lips pressed her lips as 
 he hurried on. 
 
 "Natana, Natana, I had to get 
 him away. I cannot live in Quivira 
 with him here." 
 
 For one brief moment Natana was 
 in heaven. Isopete did care for her, 
 had dared for her. Then she strug 
 gled to free herself. 
 
 (81)
 
 " You have killed Good Heart, Iso- 
 pete. Go find him. Coronado will 
 kill you." 
 
 Isopete laughed. 
 
 " The Turk broke from his shackles 
 tonight. Coronado will say the Turk 
 did it. The Turk must die anyhow. ' ' 
 
 "I will tell Coronado." 
 
 "Do," sneered the Indian, "and 
 I'll say you did it. He remembers 
 how you spoke for Gallego against 
 the Turk. He knows an Indian 
 slave does sometimes hate a Spaniard 
 who trifles with her." 
 
 Isopete had slipped the rope off 
 her arms and placed Natana on 
 her feet. As he caught her up again 
 a hand stronger than his own seized 
 him and Fra Padilla held him in a 
 grip like iron. Natana caught the 
 priest's arms. 
 
 " Let him go, Father, let him go," 
 she pleaded. 
 
 (82)
 
 itt 
 
 "All women are alike," murmured 
 Padilla as his hold loosened, and 
 Isopete glided away. 
 
 Then Natana fell at the feet of the 
 priest. 
 
 " Oh, Father, Good Heart is killed. 
 He fell over the edge of the rock." 
 
 All women are alike, else Natana 
 had told the whole truth then. 
 
 "Where, where, my child?" In 
 all these months the girl had never 
 seen Padilla white and terror-smitten 
 as now. 
 
 Together they hastened up the 
 steep ascent, and Natana pointed to 
 the place where Gallego had been 
 pushed off the precipice. Some dis 
 tance down in the crevice of a sharp 
 angle formed by a slight shelf of 
 rock a small clump of cottonwood 
 brush had rooted stubbornly and 
 grown with the sturdy defiance of 
 that heroic tree, the pioneer of the 
 
 (83)
 
 3fo <$& (jputmra 
 
 plains. Into this clump Gallego had 
 crashed, and with such grip as he 
 could keep, his arms bound at the 
 elbows, he clung to the rock with 
 desperate grasp. 
 
 Fra Padilla peered over the top 
 of the rock and listened. 
 
 "He is not dead. He is caught 
 down there. I hear him groaning. 
 Run, Natana, and bring me a rope. 
 We can save him. Tristan! Tris 
 tan!" he called, "hold on a little 
 longer." 
 
 Natana hastened to where Isopete 
 had unbound her arms, and catching 
 up the long lariat she fled up the steep 
 ascent again. Father Padilla bound 
 the rope about her waist and lowered 
 her carefully down to where Gallego 's 
 body was caught. The shelf of rock 
 was very narrow, and already his 
 hands were numb from the grip, but 
 to lose his hold meant a fall of many 
 
 (84)
 
 (Jtoititra 
 
 feet to the broken rocks below. It 
 took all of Nat ana's agility to drag 
 Gallego's sword from its sheath, and, 
 keeping her hold on the rocky ledge, 
 to cut his bonds. Then she fastened 
 the rope that held her around his 
 body, and called to the priest to draw 
 him up. 
 
 Fra Padilla was a man of giant 
 strength, but it took all his cunning 
 to bring the half -dead form to the 
 top of the rock. 
 
 "My son, my dear, dear son," he 
 cried as he stretched Gallego on the 
 ground. "You must not die. I 
 could never forgive myself the pen 
 ance I put on you." 
 
 Gallego groaned aloud, then tried 
 to rise. 
 
 "Where is the little Pagan?" he 
 asked. 
 
 The priest caught his breath. 
 
 (85)
 
 " I had forgotten her. She is down 
 there." 
 
 " Not dead ? ' ' gasped Gallego. 
 
 "No, no. I sent her after you. 
 I'll lower the rope to her." 
 
 Carefully weighting the end of the 
 rope with a fragment of stone, he 
 lowered it to Natana on the angle 
 below. The girl bound it under her 
 arms, and, bruised and sore, reached 
 the top. In her hand she held the 
 sword. 
 
 "I wish I might have run it 
 through the villain who threw me 
 over," said Gallego. 
 
 "I wish you had lost it down 
 there," said Padilla. "So long as you 
 make it your strength you shut out 
 God's power from your heart." 
 
 " I hope he may never know whose 
 heart his sword missed tonight," 
 thought Natana. In her own heart 
 hope was born anew. Isopete did 
 
 (86)
 
 love her, else why should he have 
 dared so much tonight? The hope 
 was coupled with dread of danger to 
 Gallego, for whom she would have 
 died, and fear of the result of such 
 danger to Isopete, whom she be 
 lieved now would die for her. 
 
 The three rested a while on the 
 rock's crest, and then, with a prayer 
 such as never the night air about that 
 lone rock had heard before in all its 
 misty centuries of time, the priest 
 blessed his two children, and lead 
 ing each by the hand, the proud 
 Spanish knight and the humble In 
 dian slave, they passed down to the 
 sleeping camp and sought their rest 
 ing-places. 
 
 (87)
 
 Some-love, 
 Ipart. 
 
 BetterTTeresy in doctrine 
 Than heresy of heart." 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 HERE is left only one 
 thing more to be done." 
 It was Francesco de Coro- 
 nado who spoke in coun 
 sel with his knights. 
 
 " We must go to the end of 
 Quivira, and then return to New 
 Spain." 
 
 He said these words as men speak 
 to whom the ambition of a lifetime 
 has brought only heartbreaking loss. 
 He spoke courageously. And yet 
 the real hardship of all this long ex 
 cursion of failure and ruin was the 
 return to Mendoza's court, to be 
 
 (89)
 
 In to <utmra 
 
 humiliated, and for all future years 
 plunged into poverty and obscurity. 
 The land of Quivira lay like a gar 
 den of Eden, as matched against the 
 sand-dunes of the dreary South 
 west. Northward to the fertile val 
 ley of the river to be some day 
 known as the Smoky Hill, they jour 
 neyed. All hope of gold had van 
 ished in this fat black soil. East 
 ward for a time they took their way, 
 to where the river joined another as 
 large as itself and rolled away in 
 one broad, beautiful sweep down a 
 valley of wild loveliness. In years 
 to come this valley of the Kaw 
 would yield its treasures to him who 
 should conquer the land itself, and 
 find its gold, not in stubborn rocks 
 in deep dark mines, but in the gold 
 of growing grain, the wealth of the 
 earth's increase to him who will sow 
 by its waters. 
 
 (90)
 
 In <to <f tttmra 
 
 It is no wonder the people of 
 Quivira loved their land. They 
 digged in its soil and planted the 
 seeds of pumpkin and beans and 
 maize. They made snug lodges, of 
 strong poles tied together with lim 
 ber willow withes, and overlaid with 
 heavy sod. They had warm furs 
 for clothing and blankets. They 
 ate the juiciest venison and buffalo 
 meats. They had Indian pudding, 
 dried plums and grapes, and the 
 kernels of wild nuts that had sweet 
 ened in the sun and frost of long 
 rare autumn days. They were brave 
 and free, and strong and faithful; 
 and Coronado, who was of nobler 
 spirit than the spirit of his mother 
 country, left them as he found them, 
 unharmed by the evil touch of a 
 corrupt civilization. Almost a score 
 of months he spent in reaching 
 
 Quivira. He remained in the king- 
 on
 
 dom hardly more than a score of 
 days, passing, before his return, to 
 its farthest eastern limit. 
 
 And all this time there was but 
 one soul in the expedition to whom 
 the call of the prairie sounded clear 
 and sweet. Fra Juan Padilla, who 
 had renounced the world in the day 
 of his greatest military achievement, 
 felt that here he should come into 
 his own for all his earthly days. He 
 was now the happiest, busiest man 
 in all Quivira. His commanding 
 presence, his gentle touch, his dark 
 keen eyes, his sweet smile, and his 
 sincere love for all men as his own 
 brothers, made his days full of 
 benediction in this far heathen land. 
 The simple-hearted Quivirans came 
 to him like a flock to its shepherd, 
 and he did not fail them. 
 
 And where all this time was the 
 Turk who had led the band almost 
 
 (92)
 
 Cputirtra 
 
 to its utter ruin ? For one night his 
 chains had been removed and he 
 had obtained a brief freedom. He 
 had easily eluded the guards and had 
 made the hours of freedom pay him 
 to the full. It was he who had 
 started Isopete up the rock to find 
 Gallego and Natana together. Then 
 he had passed quickly among the 
 Quivira people, whose hunting-tents 
 Coronado had so recently found in 
 the cottonwood grove. He told his 
 own story, showed his calloused 
 wrists and ankles chafed by the 
 cruel chains. That their fate would 
 be like his he easily put as a sugges 
 tion into their minds, and left it to 
 grow there. And, cunningest of all, 
 he forced upon them the need for 
 keeping Isopete bitter toward the 
 Spaniards. In that alone, done se 
 cretly and unknown to the big guide, 
 he assured them their whole safety 
 
 (93)
 
 lay. But his master-stroke was 
 made when he begged one day for 
 Gallego to come to him. In a well- 
 feigned penitence for his own mis 
 deeds he sought to redeem himself 
 by an act of loyalty to Gallego. 
 Isopete, he assured the young knight, 
 was lying in wait for him. Would 
 try to kill him. Would try and 
 try. 
 
 "For," said the smooth scoundrel, 
 "he told me himself he would push 
 you over the great rock the night we 
 lay at its feet. He must have been 
 afraid to try, for here you are, but it 
 was his plan. If he failed, then he 
 will try something else. I have 
 warned you." 
 
 "So," said Tristan, "it was the 
 faithful guide who did me that 
 wicked turn. And why ? ' ' 
 
 Then the Turk played his last 
 trick. 
 
 (94)
 
 3ftt 
 
 "Because you love his Natana," 
 he hissed. 
 
 "But I don't," said Gallego. 
 
 The Turk ground his teeth. 
 
 "Then why do you not leave her 
 alone?" 
 
 Gallego turned without another 
 word and left him. 
 
 "It is well for all of us that man 
 is not free," he said to himself. And 
 then the human nature in him came 
 uppermost. He forgot the Turk's 
 scheming nature. 
 
 "What is there left for me in this 
 world anyhow?" he said in excuse 
 to himself. "I may as well have 
 this little Quivira pagan for my 
 own. Isopete would finish me, and 
 the Turk would kill us both if he 
 could. Why not end it all, and get 
 Father Juan to bless us? She has 
 risked her life for me. So would 
 she again. Sometimes I've seen her 
 
 (95)
 
 3I (l!n (f mutra 
 
 standing by the Father when she 
 seemed a very queen in this wild 
 land. Why should I not be a king, 
 her king? Teresita is lost." 
 
 The groan that followed showed 
 how deep and incurable was that 
 hidden wound. A longing for the 
 old life, for Seville, and the music 
 of moonlit nights; for the splendor 
 of the Moorish castles, and the 
 solemn chimes of old cathedral bells ; 
 a wave of homesick anguish swept 
 his soul. 
 
 "I will put it all by forever," he 
 muttered. "I'll marry this dear 
 little heathen and take her away 
 somewhere for my own. If she is 
 such a prize to these two rogues they 
 would do away with me, she must 
 be worth all she costs." 
 
 And then, because Nat ana did not 
 seek him, but dreamed of Isopete 
 and waited for his sure return, 
 
 (96)
 
 Sit 
 
 Gallego began to watch for her 
 coming and going. She was doubly 
 attractive now because she did not 
 think of him save as one she would 
 protect. The Turk was no longer 
 to be feared. She was in her own 
 land again, and life was sweet and 
 full of promise to her. A low song 
 was on her lips, the song that speaks 
 of deepest happiness now, and soft 
 ens only a little by-and-by into the 
 crooning lullaby for blessed baby 
 hood. So ran the days of that mid 
 summer in Quivira long ago. 
 
 Then suddenly there came an 
 outbreak, a revolt, and that little 
 band of adventurous men were face 
 -to face with treachery, riot and vio 
 lence. The time was well chosen. 
 Coronado had gone for a two-days 
 journey to the northeast. Father 
 Padilla was miles to the west, ad- 
 
 (97)
 
 (futmra 
 
 ministering to a little village stricken 
 with an epidemic. 
 
 Tristan Gallego, left in command, 
 was thinking only of Natana, and 
 smiling grimly as he saw the burn 
 ing black eyes of Isopete watching 
 him. Back of it all was the Turk, 
 whose helplessness had gradually 
 won the Quiviran people to pity, 
 then to exaltation. He used Iso 
 pete as his weapon, for the guide 
 was trusted everywhere, and was 
 strong and skillful. 
 
 With no blare of noise the camp 
 was suddenly surrounded, and in a 
 terse declaration of war Isopete put 
 himself at the head of the com 
 mand. Gallego was seized, and 
 thrust, bound and under guard, into 
 Coronado's tent. The remaining 
 knights, surprised and leaderless, 
 were easily overcome, and the 
 
 (981)
 
 3ltt <tf (jpmmra 
 
 power of Spain lay at the mercy of 
 a savage foe. 
 
 Before pursuing the cause to com 
 pletion as the Turk urged, Isopete 
 sought Natana. She was not at 
 Padilla's tent. Then he hurried to 
 Coronado's tepee. She was not there. 
 Over the entire camp he searched. 
 She was nowhere to be found. Iso 
 pete forgot his command, and sat 
 moodily alone. Messengers from the 
 Turk failed to move him, and there 
 was the strange condition of con 
 tending forces, each lacking a com 
 mander. At daybreak Isopete roused 
 himself to action. 
 
 "Let us slaughter all of them at 
 sunrise," was his word that was 
 borne from brave to brave; and 
 everything was put in readiness. 
 
 That was the grandest August 
 sunrise that ever shone on Kansas. 
 The folds of a morning mist, shot 
 
 (99)
 
 itt 
 
 through with a purple glory that 
 tinted into crimson, rolled back in 
 waves of splendor before the great 
 pageant of light that swung up the 
 eastern sky. The earth was one 
 glistening sheen of dewdrops, and 
 all the sweet air of morning was 
 shimmering with reflected color. 
 
 Down in the little camp all this 
 beauty was lost. To the captive 
 Spaniard its coming meant the agony 
 of death in a dreary land. To the 
 captors it meant a bloody victory, 
 foul and awful in its every part. 
 
 Just as the sun rose clear of the 
 horizon-line, there swept across the 
 camp a cry of mingled joy and 
 pleading. It was a woman's voice, 
 Natana's. And down into the very 
 midst of the angry Indians strode 
 Father Padilla, with swift, strong 
 steps. Never so like a giant had he 
 seemed before. His dark eyes burned 
 
 (100)
 
 (jpuromt 
 
 with the fire of power. In his right 
 hand was the crucifix. Alone, un 
 armed, he came among them, and in 
 the strength of his heroism they lost 
 their might. 
 
 "On earth, peace; goodwill to 
 ward men." How full and rich his 
 voice was! Like the balm of deep 
 melodious music it fell upon the ears 
 of victors and victims. The Quivira 
 Indians fell at his feet, pleading for 
 his blessing. From the hearts of the 
 knights the weight of an awful peril 
 was lifted. In an hour the camp 
 was in order, and the noontide 
 welcomed the return of Coronado. 
 Everything fell into its place except 
 this: No longer must the Turk be 
 kept alive, and with him Isopete 
 must perish. It was Coronado's or 
 der, and he was commander there. 
 
 "But Isopete is your best guide," 
 
 (101)
 
 3Jn lit (Thrimra 
 
 urged Fra Padilla, "and the Turk 
 has been his undoing." 
 
 "What say you, Gallego?" ques 
 tioned Coronado. 
 
 "Kill him, by all means; choke 
 him with the Turk. I wish they 
 were done for now." 
 
 And the hour of midnight was 
 agreed upon. 
 
 In the long August afternoon the 
 priest led Tristan away to the shade 
 of a tall cottonwood tree growing 
 huge and rank above the river-bank. 
 
 "Tristan Gallego," said the priest 
 slowly, "two days more and we shall 
 be at the end of Quivira. Then we 
 turn back. You are young only 
 twenty-seven. The years are before 
 you. Your sorrow has been deep. 
 Your life has been snatched from 
 certain death many times. I love 
 you as if you had been my own son. 
 
 (102)
 
 Tell me why you condemn this Indian 
 guide. Tell me only the truth." 
 
 Gallego looked straight into the 
 priest's eyes. 
 
 "Because he loves Natana. And 
 I am coming to you tomorrow to ask 
 you to bless us, the little girl and me. 
 I want her myself now." 
 
 "Tristan Gallego, you shall not 
 condemn to death that you alone 
 may be safe. There is no safety 
 save in the Prince of Peace. You 
 loved Teresita Morello?" 
 
 Tristan's hands clenched. 
 
 "Oh, more than my life, good 
 Father." 
 
 "Would you have had her marry 
 one she did not love?" 
 
 "No, never, never." 
 
 "My son, Natana does not love 
 you. She has saved your life twice, 
 even many times more although you 
 knew it not. Yet in the outbreak 
 
 (103)
 
 Slit 
 
 yesterday she left you to your fate 
 and came all the long miles to find 
 me that I might come and save 
 Isopete. He was free and you im 
 periled. Yet it was of him she 
 thought. Would you take her from 
 him?" 
 
 "Oh, Father, the little girl is dear 
 to me, and with her alone can I for 
 get Spain." 
 
 "Selfish still! Is not your heart 
 yet ready ? My son, you cursed the 
 church that last Christmas Eve in 
 Compostela. You have been made 
 to suffer in all this long journey; 
 more than you thought or dreamed 
 has the church laid heavy hand on 
 you. Will you take from Isopete 
 what Da Garda took from you?" 
 
 Tristan Gallego stood up to his 
 full height. The hard bitter spirit was 
 gone in that moment, and a chas 
 tened gentleness came into his eyes. 
 
 ( 104)
 
 "What shall I do?" 
 
 "Go to Coronado and secure the 
 release of Isopete." 
 
 "Then the Quiviran will run me 
 through with my own sword if he 
 can before midnight." 
 
 "You must give him your sword 
 to prove, not him, but yourself." 
 
 "Let me think, let me think," 
 Gallego pleaded. 
 
 "Well, meet me here at sunset." 
 A gentle hand-clasp, and then the 
 tall priest stooped and kissed the 
 young man's forehead, and so left 
 him. 
 
 ' ' Wherein does his real power lie ? " 
 queried Tristan. "Is it that God 
 can make a man like that whose 
 heart was crushed as mine has 
 been ? The sword of Coronado can 
 not do here what that man's love 
 can win. Nay, I believe the king 
 of Spain himself would be impotent 
 
 (105)
 
 3ltt (& ($umra 
 
 before this ambassador of the Prince 
 of Peace whom he serves." 
 
 And then Tristan Gallego lifted 
 his right hand to heaven, and in a 
 deep wordless petition he prayed. 
 To the ear of heaven his pleading 
 ran: 
 
 "I, Tristan Gallego, give up here 
 this only pleasure, my fondness for 
 a poor Indian girl, because I may not 
 keep it. I give her lover back to her, 
 and go my way, bravely now if only 
 I may hold to thee, O pitying God, 
 and trust thee for what the years 
 shall bring." 
 
 At the sunset hour Tristan and 
 Isopete stood by the river's brink. 
 Its yellow waters rolled ceaselessly 
 by. The valley below was quiet in 
 the blessed hush of a late summer 
 day. The western sky was a sea of 
 glass mingled with fire, and all the 
 wide plains of Kansas lay tranquil 
 
 (106)
 
 (mmnt 
 
 and beautiful in their grand soli 
 tude. 
 
 Isopete 's dark eyes were full of 
 hate as he came face to face with his 
 rival. With the grace of a Spanish 
 gentleman Gallego came forward. 
 
 " Isopete," he said, "you should be 
 killed tonight at midnight, for you 
 deserve to die. And yet you have 
 been a brave, true guide. It was 
 only your love for a girl that turned 
 your heart against the white man. 
 I could keep her from you, for I am 
 stronger than you. My word can 
 save you or put you to death before 
 tomorrow's sunrise. You are swift 
 and cunning. Should you live you 
 could find a way to end my life. 
 Let us both live. I have spoken 
 for you to Coronado. He will not 
 destroy you. And you are free. 
 But more than this "--the young 
 man stepped forward to Isopete 
 
 ( 107)
 
 3ht 
 
 "here is my sword. I am unarmed. 
 No one will see us in this place. 
 You can kill me here if you wish, 
 but I do not fear you. The power 
 Fra Padilla teaches is become my 
 strength." 
 
 Isopete took the sword. Its glit 
 tering blade was temptingly ready. 
 He fingered it softly. 
 
 "Keep it, Isopete. I do not want 
 it again." He spoke simply, as 
 though he had bestowed a trifling 
 trinket upon a friend. "You will 
 never draw it without reason. And 
 here I prove to you I take away all 
 reason why you should draw it 
 against me." 
 
 Fra Padilla and Natana had come 
 softly behind Isopete at that mo 
 ment, and now the priest led the 
 girl to her lover's side. 
 
 Natana was beautiful to the eyes 
 of all there as she stood in the even- 
 
 (108)
 
 ing light. The sunset beyond her 
 sent long level rays of radiance 
 across the landscape. The sky 
 seemed to bend down in loving bene 
 diction, and the softest of floating 
 pink clouds hung like bridal drapery 
 about the east, decking the great 
 marriage-hall of Nature. Natana's 
 long black hair hung in two heavy 
 braids about her shoulders; her 
 richly beaded skirt, her bright 
 blanket, and her brown face lighted 
 by glorious dark eyes, seemed some 
 how the only type of woman who 
 could grace that picture. So a part 
 of it all she was. 
 
 "Isopete, I give thee this little 
 sister for thy own. I was so fond 
 of her," his lip trembled, "and she 
 was good to me." 
 
 He turned without another word 
 and strode away. A mist was before 
 his eyes, and Natana's sympathetic 
 
 (109)
 
 face was changing to the face of a 
 beautiful Spanish girl who wore for 
 the first time in all his pictures of 
 her, such a look of pleading he 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 "Oh, Teresita, Teresita, have I 
 wounded you by my folly? It is 
 all over now." 
 
 And in the gray evening shadows 
 he sought his tent to pray. 
 
 Before the sun rose the next morn 
 ing the forlorn little band took up 
 its last eastward pilgrimage. For 
 two days the march continued. The 
 way was pleasant, for Nature had 
 blessed the valley with all the beauty 
 of a wild rich land, where even in 
 late midsummer the grasses grew 
 lush and green, and a thousand 
 golden blossoms bent before the soft 
 rippling breezes that poured over 
 them like the waves of an invisible 
 sea. The heat of the day was piti- 
 
 (110)
 
 in <to <$ srirint 
 
 less, but the nights were calm and 
 clear and cool. Gone out of all hope 
 were the barbaric cities with their 
 pagan temples and jewel-tricked 
 idols. The march held nothing more 
 than the fulfillment of the mere dec 
 laration that they had gone to the 
 end of Quivira. 
 
 In the late afternoon of the second 
 day the company passed to the top 
 of a low divide between two north 
 ward-flowing streams that emptied 
 into the great river. Its slopes were 
 soft with grass, but on the crest was 
 a stunted herbage. A few rectan 
 gular blocks of stone were here, and 
 many a pink boulder brought hither 
 by the old glacier of a bygone era of 
 time. Beyond the farther slope the 
 river stretched like a spread of 
 molten steel toward the vanishing 
 east. And everywhere as though 
 they stood in the very center of the 
 (ni)
 
 universe, there unrolled before their 
 eyes a new heaven and a new earth 
 such as no artist will ever cast on 
 canvas. 
 
 "Oh, it is magnificent!" said Fra 
 Padilla as he stood upon the crest of 
 the divide and drew in a deep breath 
 of the cool summer air. ' ' Was there 
 ever a land so beautiful as this? 
 The peace of God is everywhere. 
 Shall there ever come hither a nation 
 who will love it for itself, and grow 
 strong and free in this strong free 
 realm ? Will there ever be a Sabbath 
 here, and the benediction of the Al 
 mighty fall upon a reverent people ? " 
 
 Coronado stood beside the good 
 man with folded arms and set white 
 face. 
 
 Isopete approached, and touched 
 his hand. 
 
 "This, good Coronado, is the end 
 of Quivira. All that lies beyond this 
 
 (112)
 
 In 
 
 ridge is the land of other tribes. We 
 are at peace with them, but we go 
 not thither except for cause." 
 
 Coronado bowed his head. He 
 murmured, "This then is the end of 
 our journey, the ending of our hopes 
 and dreams and high ambitions and 
 earnest prayers. We have done 
 what we could, and there remains 
 nothing more for us here. Only God 
 Omnipotent knows how and when 
 these lands shall be discovered and 
 for whom He has guarded this good 
 fortune." 
 
 Long the brave commander stood, 
 as one may stand by the bier where 
 lies the form that has held the life 
 that was dearest to him. Then with 
 his own hands he gathered together 
 a store of pink boulders about a 
 block of limestone that lay on the 
 highest point. Slowly and patiently 
 he built upon this base a rude stone 
 
 (113)
 
 cross, its yellow-gray form contrast 
 ing in color with the heaps of round 
 pink stones piled about it. Then 
 slowly he etched deep in the base of 
 the cross the inscription : 
 
 " FRANCESCO VASQUEZDE CORONADO, 
 
 GENERAL OF THE ARMY, 
 
 ARRIVED HERE." 
 
 All the heart-break of a lost life- 
 ambition was in that rude inscrip 
 tion, all the longing for remembrance, 
 all the dread of oblivion. 
 
 The company slept that night at 
 the foot of the slope. When they 
 pitched their tents at the close of the 
 next day they were many miles to 
 the southwest. 
 
 By a much shorter route than the 
 wicked Turk had led them Isopete 
 guided the Spaniards straight away 
 toward Tewa, where the remainder 
 of Coronado's band awaited their re 
 turn. 
 
 (114)
 
 <$ ittmra 
 
 On the second day's journey to 
 ward home they passed the spot 
 where the bones of the Turk were to 
 moulder in a nameless grave. Tris 
 tan Gallego with Fra Padilla lingered 
 by it for a brief time. A strangely 
 tender feeling came to the young 
 knight's heart. Taking from his 
 neck a small ivory cross, he buried 
 it deep in the dry clods of the grave. 
 
 "Poor wretch!" he murmured. 
 "How many lives are wrecked by 
 evil guides. God pity him." 
 
 Fra Padilla lifted his hands in si 
 lent prayer for the soul of the Turk, 
 and then he turned to Gallego. 
 
 "He that dwelleth in the secret 
 place of the Most High, shall abide 
 under the shadow of the Almighty." 
 
 He spoke the words with the rev 
 erent grace that made all his utter 
 ances like benedictions. 
 
 The two stood still a moment 
 
 ( 115)
 
 longer, and then they hastened on to 
 the little band straggling bravely 
 toward the southwest. 
 
 (116)
 
 /And when the Angel of Shadow 
 n'i 
 
 Rests his feet on wave and shore, 
 
 And our eyes grow dim with watching 
 And our hearts faint at the oar, 
 
 " Happy is he who heareth 
 
 The signal of his release 
 In the bells of the Holy City, 
 The chimes of eternal peace." 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 T was early autumn when 
 Coronado's company, rag 
 ged, worn, browned by a 
 fierce September sun, and 
 crushed with a sense of failure and 
 impending degradation, reached the 
 mud-walled village of Tewa. From 
 this point they had no further need 
 for Isopete, and he tarried only 
 briefly ; for his heart was in Quivira 
 with Natana. His grief at parting 
 with Fra Padilla was pitiful. 
 
 ( 117)
 
 3ln 
 
 "Come, come back with me," he 
 wailed. "Natana wants you. All 
 my people want you. There are 
 scores and scores of holy men down 
 that way," pointing toward the 
 south. "Come where there is not 
 one. You have no wife, no child, no 
 home. You never will have. Come 
 and guide us from the kingdom of 
 Quivira to the kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 Tristan Gallego stood by Fra Pa- 
 dilla. 
 
 "Why, neither have I any of these, 
 Isopete," he said gently. 
 
 Isopete fell at his feet, and draw 
 ing the sword Gallego had given him 
 from his belt, he held it up in offer 
 ing. 
 
 "Take your sword, good Span 
 iard. Go fight and win many lands. 
 It is a beautiful sword. Isopete 
 loves it, for you gave it to him. 
 Take it again." 
 
 ( 118)
 
 3ltt 
 
 Gallego gently put down his hand. 
 
 "Keep the sword. I shall never 
 fight for lands. Keep it so long as 
 you let it hang in your tepee the 
 sign between us that we would save 
 life, not seek to destroy it. May it 
 rest and rust in your beautiful 
 Quivira many long years, the symbol 
 only of a life that was." 
 
 Father Padilla put both arms lov 
 ingly around the young Spaniard. 
 
 "My son, my son, you are ready 
 now. Your penance is ended. You 
 would not curse the church now." 
 
 "God forbid," said Gallego in deep 
 reverence. 
 
 Padilla's face shone with a beauty 
 such as the old masters would put 
 into the faces of the Apostles. 
 
 "Now I may go where my heart 
 leads me. The call of the plains is 
 in my ears. The lure of that vast 
 solemn land, that beautiful solitude, 
 
 ( 119)
 
 is strong upon me. I must go again 
 to Quivira. To the uttermost parts 
 of the earth the blessed gospel must 
 be borne. And into my hands is it 
 given to carry it thither. Isopete, I 
 shall return with you when you de 
 part tomorrow. From henceforth 
 my way leads me from the haunts 
 of civilized men, but not from the 
 abode of needy human souls. Al 
 ways I shall see the spires of the 
 beautiful cathedrals of Spain, and 
 the candles and the holy altars. 
 And always will the chime of cathe 
 dral bells sound in my ears; but I 
 shall go to where these things may 
 never be for me. I must walk in a 
 way where later the feet of many a 
 holier man than I shall run with 
 ease and find all these tokens of 
 men's genius and power. What I 
 must do I must do. No man may 
 
 ( 120 )
 
 (f utmra 
 
 read another's duty to him so clearly 
 as he may read it for himself. 
 
 ' ' Go, now, Isopete. Tomorrow to 
 gether we shall journey forth again 
 toward the land of the sunrise, to 
 ward our Quivira. Yours and mine 
 -and His." 
 
 He pointed toward the crucifix in 
 his hand. 
 
 When Isopete had gone, Tristan 
 Gallego sat with bowed head. 
 
 "You are right, good Father," 
 he said. "No man may read an 
 other's duty so clearly as he can 
 read it for himself. I thought my 
 self strong. Oh, Father, what shall 
 I do without you ? " 
 
 And then Fra Padilla stood up 
 before his young friend with a joy 
 in his face such as Tristan had never 
 seen on any face before. 
 
 "Let us go where the air is cool, 
 my boy. I have a message for you. ' ' 
 
 (121)
 
 Involuntarily the memory of the 
 same words from Father Padilla 
 nearly two years before came with a 
 start to Tristan. The two sat down 
 outside the village wall and looked 
 out over the wide Arizona plain. 
 
 "When I came to you with a 
 message once, Tristan Gallego, you 
 cursed the church in the bitterness 
 of your soul. It was bitterness and 
 not real blasphemy that moved you, 
 I knew it then; and yet one must 
 not curse, even in bitterness. At the 
 altar that night I vowed a penance 
 on you. It came sooner than I had 
 thought. I am ready tonight to re 
 lease you. Listen, Tristan. On the 
 Saturday night before we left Com- 
 postela, Pedro the courier brought 
 me letters from Old Spain. The 
 news of one I could hardly have kept 
 but for my vow, so great was my 
 love for you. But you had sinned. 
 
 (122)
 
 The letter told how Count Da Garda 
 had been killed three days before 
 Christmas by a fall from the window 
 of his high tower. Too much wine. 
 But the letter said further, that Ter- 
 esita Morello had utterly refused to 
 wed him. That may have added to 
 his already too greedy appetite 
 for wine. Furthermore, this Teresita 
 declared she would never wed save 
 where her heart was wedded too; 
 that is, to Tristan Gallego." 
 
 Tristan clasped the Father's hand, 
 but uttered no sound. 
 
 :< You were poor, Tristan, and 
 proud, and you had cursed the 
 Holy Church. You could not have 
 gone to her poor. Coronado's ex 
 pedition seemed to offer you gold. 
 But for your sin you must not know 
 of this love till you had proved your 
 self. I sent Pedro post-haste on the 
 morning we left Compostela to the 
 
 (123)
 
 3ltt 
 
 coast towns with messages for the 
 first ship. For Teresita, and for 
 my friend whom you do not know." 
 
 The good man paused, as one who 
 hesitates to reopen a sad and sacred 
 past. 
 
 "You remember, my boy, the 
 story I told you of the soldier who 
 became a priest?" 
 
 "Yes, Father," said Gallego in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "The Nina whom he loved was 
 married to Francesco Morello, and 
 her daughter is Teresita Morello. 
 When the young commander re 
 nounced the world he did not put 
 his fortune, which was large, into 
 the church. I said ' he put it away.' 
 Instead of losing control of it, he 
 gave it into a banker's hands in 
 trust. The friend to whom I sent 
 letters by Pedro was this banker. 
 The fortune and its increase was to 
 
 (124)
 
 3f 
 
 revert to the daughter of Nina Mo- 
 rello if she should wed the man of her 
 choice, unless I chose to alter the be 
 quest myself. I did alter it. I gave 
 this friend my last order before I left 
 Compostela, in the letter Pedro took 
 away. It was that one Tristan Gal- 
 lego, on his return to Spain, should 
 have this fortune entire and untram- 
 meled when he should marry Teresita 
 Morello. Should she die, or wed an 
 other, the money was still his own; 
 but should he prove untrue to the 
 child of my loved dead Nina, then 
 the money should go into the coffers 
 of the Holy Church. 
 
 " Tomorrow morning " the priest 
 spoke now in a voice whose low 
 melody was full of sweetness - " To 
 morrow morning I shall bid you good- 
 by forever. Every hardship of the 
 life before me will be softened to 
 ease by the thought of your new life 
 
 (125)
 
 in Spain, and my one earthly joy 
 will be your happiness, and hers, 
 the little Teresita who waits for you 
 in the vine-draped gardens of Se 
 ville." 
 
 Tristan Gallego had known Father 
 Padilla too long and well to misun 
 derstand him now. To try to per 
 suade him to renounce the wilderness 
 and return to Spain would have been 
 useless. 
 
 There are moments in life whose 
 emotions no word may express. 
 Down all the long years to the day 
 of his death, Tristan Gallego never 
 lost the inspiration of the last hand 
 clasp and unspoken benediction of 
 Fra Padilla, when the two bade each 
 other good-by on the lonely sun- 
 swathed plains of Arizona. 
 
 In the harbor of San Lucar the 
 good ship Santa Carina had been 
 
 (126)
 
 3ltt <U> (jpittmra 
 
 long due, and now it was the Christ 
 mas-time again. In the churches 
 the candles burned and chants were 
 sung and masses were said. All 
 Spain was in its holiday spirit. And 
 yet one heart in Seville was heavy 
 this Christmastide. Teresita Morello 
 more beautiful now than in the 
 years of her careless, happy girlhood, 
 for that her face wore the cast of the 
 chastening spirit of patience had 
 hoped and waited and loved through 
 three long years without one word 
 from across the wide Atlantic. The 
 world which is girdled now by the 
 speaking wires of men's devising was 
 so vast and uncertain and unknown 
 in the day of Spanish conquest. As 
 the months went by, the slow dying 
 of buoyant hope, the even round of 
 patient waiting, were come now to 
 the hour of resignation. Teresita 
 Morello 's prayer on Christmas Eve 
 
 (127)
 
 3ftt (& (Jutmra 
 
 was only for strength to endure. 
 No longer could she ask for her hope's 
 fulfillment. 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of Decem 
 ber, 1542, the Santa Carina, battered 
 by shipwreck and tossed by contrary 
 winds far from her course through 
 many weeks of her voyage, came sail 
 ing up the harbor waters as a bird 
 flies home to its nest. It came from 
 the New World, and its welcome was 
 like what no ship will ever have in 
 these later years, for it brought a 
 wealth of messages to waiting friends, 
 and stories of life in the young civili 
 zation of the Western Hemisphere. 
 
 The bells of Seville were pealing 
 out their glad song of joy on this 
 Christmas morning. " Glory to God 
 in the highest, and on earth peace, 
 goodwill toward men," was the bur 
 den of their glad refrain. In the hall 
 of the old palace of Da Garda Ter- 
 
 (128)
 
 esita Morello sat before the bright 
 wood fire, gazing intently into its 
 heart of cheery flame. The heavy 
 hangings of the doorway parted, a 
 step on the marble floor, and Tristan 
 Gallego stood once more beside the 
 girl he loved. 
 
 "Whom God hath joined to 
 gether," the benediction of heaven 
 shall compass about with peace and 
 joy. 
 
 It was Christmastide in far Qui- 
 vira. In the center of the largest 
 village stood a cross, the shrine of 
 all this little band. Father Padilla 
 stood at the doorway of Isopete's 
 tepee. Natana and a group of In 
 dian women were gathered about 
 him, and beyond them stood the 
 Indian braves. Love and trust were 
 seen on every face. 
 
 During the months that followed 
 
 (129)
 
 3ftt 
 
 the return of Padilla to Quivira the 
 blessing of heaven had fallen abun 
 dantly upon him. Like children 
 eager for knowledge, the simple- 
 hearted Quivirans accepted his mes 
 sage. And because he himself so 
 lived the thing he taught, they could 
 not fail to understand it and to go 
 themselves in the way his footsteps 
 fell. Those months had brought 
 more joy to the noble-hearted priest 
 than all the years of his priesthood 
 before. 
 
 "It is only the first seed-sowing," 
 he had said to himself. " There may 
 be only one poor harvest now, and 
 yet it is the beginning here. The 
 Lord has chosen me to go first into 
 this land and be His light-bearer. 
 So He has strengthened my hands 
 for this work, and, blessed be His 
 holy name, He is with me here as 
 He was with me in Old Spain." 
 
 (130)
 
 3ltt <$& <f utrnni 
 
 At this Christmas-time approach 
 ing Padilla had hoped to carry home 
 to the Indian heart the beautiful 
 story and beautiful lesson with a 
 power new to them. His soul was 
 full of joy. Like a little child in 
 happy anticipation of good things 
 to come, he awaited the dawn of the 
 holy day. In all its coming he re 
 gretted only one thing: he longed 
 just once for the sound of cathedral 
 bells on Christmas morning. But 
 his joy was not to be realized. For 
 duty his Supreme Ruler willed other 
 things for him. 
 
 The Indian mind is cunning. The 
 neighboring tribes were not slow in 
 learning of the strange new order in 
 Quivira. 
 
 "The Quivira is crazy," they said; 
 "a medicine -man has bewitched 
 them. They have buried their tom 
 ahawks and they fall down before a 
 
 (131)
 
 3tt (Pto Qputtrtra 
 
 cross of stone. They do not scalp 
 their enemies, but let them go un 
 hurt. We shall all be so if this med 
 icine-man Padilla stays here." 
 
 "Quivira is a fertile land," they 
 said to each other. " If Quivira will 
 not fight, let us go in and take the 
 land and destroy all the tribe. But 
 first we must be rid of Padilla. The 
 tribe will dig up all the tomahawks 
 for him, so much they love him. 
 And left alone, an Indian is an In 
 dian still. We must rid us of this 
 bad Padilla. But how?" 
 
 That it should be done openly and 
 violently they were too wise to at 
 tempt. And so they planned darkly. 
 
 Two days before Christmas a mes 
 senger came pleading in a strange 
 tongue for help. 
 
 "My people," he said, "are sick. 
 They have heard of you. They are 
 only two days to the southeast. 
 
 (132)
 
 3ftt <$to (Qvtoto* 
 
 Come and save them, good Padilla. 
 You are said to love all men. They 
 are all your brothers." 
 
 The Indian pressed a kiss on Pa- 
 dilla's cheek as he spoke. So Judas 
 Iscariot had betrayed the Christ fif 
 teen centuries before. 
 
 "Do not leave us, good Father," 
 plead Nat ana and all the women. 
 
 "We fear for you," declared Iso- 
 pete. "Stay with us. Do not be 
 lieve him," pointing to the messen 
 ger. 
 
 "Have ye so learned Christ?" 
 asked the Father gently. And they 
 let him go. 
 
 How lonely was the village then! 
 In Isopete's tent the Indians gath 
 ered and talked of Padilla. 
 
 " He will be back by the day after 
 tomorrow," they said. "We are to 
 have a holy-day." 
 
 In the tepee hung the sword of 
 
 (133)
 
 3ln ($to (fmmra 
 
 Tristan Gallego, and the Indians 
 touched it as a sacred thing. 
 
 " If the good father comes not back 
 we will take this sword to avenge his 
 death." But Isopete and Natana 
 shook their heads. 
 
 " It is no longer to kill that we keep 
 this sword," they said. The Qui- 
 virans only frowned. 
 
 "A sword is made to kill or else 
 to be buried like our tomahawks," 
 they said. 
 
 Father Padilla was led on toward 
 the southeast, and came after a two- 
 days journey to where the beautiful 
 Neosho now ripples over rocky ways, 
 through a beautiful grove. In all 
 Quivira no forest trees grew as these 
 trees grew here. They were leafless 
 now, and the smoke from many 
 skin lodges floated up through their 
 branches. 
 
 "It is a beautiful land for my 
 
 (134)
 
 (f mmra 
 
 Christmas if I may only help these 
 brethren. My Quivira children will 
 await my coming patiently. Already 
 I am building up a home in these 
 plains." 
 
 So mused Fra Padilla as he was 
 led from tent to tent. He found no 
 sick nor broken-spirited ones, and 
 his wonder grew to a certain conclu 
 sion: The scowling faces and cold 
 angry gestures could mean only one 
 thing he was in the hands of 
 enemies ! 
 
 At the dawn of Christmas day he 
 stood on a bluff above the river. A 
 wide circle of savages shut him in. 
 Not one pitying face was there. Pa 
 dilla turned his eyes for the last time 
 on the wide sweeping Kansas prairies 
 on which the rare December day was 
 pouring out its chrism of opal splen 
 dor. 
 
 "My Father" that voice was 
 
 (135)
 
 3ltt 
 
 never so rich and full and sweet as 
 now "my Father, I would have 
 lived for this beautiful land. I 
 would have lived for Thee here. 
 Let me die for Thee here, Thy first 
 martyr, but not Thy last on these 
 plains." 
 
 And then as his eyes caught sight 
 of the jagged murderous stones the 
 Indians held ready to hurl at him, 
 the love of the Christ triumphed. 
 
 "Father, forgive them, for they 
 know not what they do." 
 
 Clear as in the day on Mount Cal 
 vary those loving words rang out 
 for a sinful world, they sounded now 
 on the desolate prairie of the new 
 West. 
 
 Just one wish was Padilla's at that 
 moment a human longing for the 
 sound of the old church-bells of 
 Spain. A savage whoop and a storm 
 of cruel stones beat against Juan 
 
 (136)
 
 3(tt <to ( utmra 
 
 Padilla, crushing him to the earth. 
 But the good priest felt it not. In 
 his ears was the music of cathedral 
 chimes rich and full and strong 
 the old, old chant of victory, "GLORY 
 
 TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON 
 EARTH PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARD 
 
 MEN." 
 
 They found his broken body where 
 the savages had fled away in terror 
 from the height. Isopete and Na- 
 tana buried it where it lay. Above 
 the grave as the one last tribute the 
 Quivira people built up a huge pile 
 of stone. They heaped it high above 
 their heads, in careful form, a column 
 crudely four-square to the world. 
 
 "So Good Heart told me they do 
 in Spain," said Natana. "We shall 
 build here what will stand forever 
 and all the people may see it, for 
 here it is so high above all land so 
 far as an Indian may run in a day 
 
 (137)
 
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