THE PENITENTES 
 
 L-rf L^l J r I JLrfK-/ 
 
 LOUIS HOW 
 
University of California Berkeley 
 

 
 A>*U 
 
fbe PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
PENITENTES 
 OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 A Tale of the San Luis Valley 
 
 BY 
 
 LOUIS HOW 
 
 The BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS INDIANAPOLIS 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1900 
 
 THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Braunworth, Munn & Barber 
 
 Printers and Binders 
 
 Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, PRESCOTT WARREN, 
 FOR WHOM THE PENITENTES WAS ORIGIN- 
 ALLY WRITTEN, I NOW DEDICATE THIS TALE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 i 
 
 ONE LOVER THE LESS i 
 
 II 
 A GENUINE ZURBURAN 18 
 
 III 
 AT SAN RAFAEL 27 
 
 IV 
 A PROMISE OF HELP 38 
 
 V 
 A GREAT FEAR 46 
 
 VI 
 THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 52 
 
 VII 
 PASCO AND PAEZ 64 
 
 VIII 
 PRIDE OF BIRTH 73 
 
 IX 
 A SIGN IN THE SKY 82 
 
 X 
 DOLORES WAITS 90 
 
 XI 
 HE COMES AND GOES 95 
 
 XII 
 CONTRARY VISIONS 106 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XIII 
 FANITA'S CHOICE 116 
 
 XIV 
 A LOVER'S PROMISE 120 
 
 XV 
 THE CURFEW 126 
 
 XVI 
 A RECRUITING OFFICE 131 
 
 XVII 
 AN ARBITER OF FATE 138 
 
 XVIII 
 CASTING THE LOT 144 
 
 XIX 
 
 A CROSS BEARER 152 
 
 XX 
 
 THE COMING OF STANCE 159 
 
 XXI 
 
 FAY GRADY 175 
 
 XXII 
 PRIEST MEETS PRIEST 183 
 
 XXIII 
 STANCE'S ADVICE 191 
 
 XXIV 
 
 DIPLOMACY 198 
 
 XXV 
 A SAINT AMONG SAINTS 207 
 
 XXVI 
 DANGEROUS ADVICE 214 
 
 XXVII 
 A THREAT AND A PLEA 223 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XXVIII 
 THE BRAYING OF AN Ass 235 
 
 XXIX 
 FAY'S GUEST 243 
 
 XXX 
 A MORMON EMBASSY 260 
 
 XXXI 
 FATHER CHUCHO WARNED 269 
 
 XXXII 
 A PRISONER IN THE PRIEST'S HOUSE 279 
 
 XXXIII 
 DEVLIN RETURNS 287 
 
 XXXIV 
 A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 302 
 
 XXXV 
 A DESPERATE LOVER 318 
 
 XXXVI 
 A PLOT WITH WIVVERS 325 
 
 XXXVII 
 FEEDING THE HUNGRY 331 
 
 XXXVIII 
 FAY GOES Too FAR 336 
 
 XXXIX 
 AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 343 
 
 XL 
 THE VIGIL 356 
 
 XLI 
 THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 362 
 
 XLII 
 
 FAY'S FUTURE 377 
 
THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 PART FIRST 
 
 I 
 
 ONE LOVER THE LESS 
 
 A 1 a branching of the heavy sand road the 
 young rider made toward a brown spot 
 that might promise shade. He was rid- 
 ing down from the hills, where ne had been fish- 
 ing for a week, to La Jara, to catch a train. The 
 San Luis Valley was pitiless with a mid-summer 
 heat as monotonous as an oven. He had passed 
 through the Penitentes' village, with its black 
 crosses marking fallen cross-bearers, and was 
 now in the midst of the broad plain. The sun 
 beat down from a dead blue sky and the glare 
 beat up from, the brown sand. The mirage 
 twinkled on the distant horizon. Even Mount 
 Blanca, massive and blue, with a patch of snow 
 on his head, did not look cool. 
 
 The horse plowed wearily along. But sure 
 enough, after another suffocating interminable 
 ten minutes, there was an adobe house, which 
 seemed to be built right up against the blue sky. 
 As he stopped to water his dejected horse at an 
 
 artesian well trough across the road, a girl came 
 
 i 
 
2 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 running to him from the deliciously cool-looking 
 darkness of the house. She had a pretty Spanish 
 face. 
 
 "Get down and let me have the horse," she 
 gasped, "I must go for the Padre. She's dying." 
 And she pointed a dark arm to the adobe house. 
 
 She wore a coarse blue skirt to her bare ankles, 
 and a brown blouse with low neck and short 
 sleeves. 
 
 "Where do you want to go?" he said. "An- 
 tonito? I'll send the priest." 
 
 "No," insisted the girl, looking up at him 
 with her eager black eyes. "I must ride. You 
 can't ride. Get down!" She seized the bridle 
 and shook it. 
 
 "Where are your own horses?" he asked. 
 
 "Sist* won't keep none," she said, quickly. 
 "O, hurry! I must go. She's dying." 
 
 The shade of the porch looked very inviting. 
 
 "She must have the last Sacraments," she 
 begged piteously. "Get down. Nobody won't 
 hurt you." 
 
 She was on the horse as soon as he was off, 
 and with a click and a slap on his flank, actually 
 made him spring away and into a gallop. She 
 turned in the high Mexican saddle to shout back, 
 "Sit on the veranda. Don't go in!" 
 
 After drinking from the artesian well spout, 
 he walked through the hot sand to the shade of 
 the light roof resting on two poles that formed 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 3 
 
 the veranda, Sitting on a. bench against the 
 house wall, he took off his wide hat and fanned 
 himself with it, and wiped his flushed face with 
 his handkerchief. The glare hurt his eyes so 
 that he put on his hat again. He wished there 
 were one tree in the blue and yellow scene. 
 There was not a sound, not a breath of air; and 
 except the girl on his horse galloping up the 
 level road, there was not a thing in motion. 
 
 Once, while he sat there, a tired voice from 
 inside called, "Dolores!" He turned and stared 
 into the darkness, but could see nothing; and it 
 did not call again. 
 
 The girl and the horse were getting farther 
 and farther away till they were almost part of the 
 .mirage. At last it seemed to him, as best he 
 could make out through the quivering steam of 
 heat, that they had stopped. Then he was aware 
 of another rider joining them. Finally the two 
 moved off together, apparently on another road. 
 It was hard to distinguish in the glare. They 
 seemed to halt once more. He thought one of 
 them dismounted. It hurt his eyes to look. 
 Then he thought he got on again; or was it 
 Dolores? Finally they rode off, hurrying in 
 opposite directions. One disappeared in the 
 mirage, and the other soon was only a speck 
 moving along in the tremulous air near the 
 ground. 
 
 Then finally a figure focused itself again on 
 
4 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 the road, coming towards him, on foot. It was 
 the girl, and she came running back, kicking 
 up a great dust. 
 
 "Where is my horse?" he cried, as she panted 
 into the porch and sank down on the bench be- 
 side him. 
 
 "He's all right/' she gasped, pointing up the 
 road while getting her breath. 
 
 At the sound of her voice, the voice from with- 
 in called again, "Dolores!" 
 
 The girl sprang up and ran in. Next moment 
 she came out with a tin pan in her hand, ran 
 across to the artesian well, and was back imme- 
 diately with a pan full of water. 
 
 Soon she came out again and sat on the bench, 
 
 "I loaned your horse to Cristobal," she ex- 
 plained. "He didn't have no* horse this morn- 
 ing. He'll bring him back," she added reassur- 
 ingly. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Of course he will," she insisted, opening wide 
 her very Spanish eyes and shaking her head seri- 
 ously; "both of 'em '11 try to get here the soon- 
 est. I promised I'd marry the one that fetched 
 the Padre first " 
 
 "Marry " 
 
 "Yes, sir. I give my hand on it. I wasn't 
 really ready to make up my mind yet; but I 
 don't know whether the Padre's in Antonito or 
 La Jara, and she's dying." 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 5 
 
 He stared at her. She had a rich complexion; 
 and a fine large mouth with straight teeth. 
 
 "Is she your mother?" he asked. 
 
 "My name is Dolores," she said simply. 
 
 "But I guess she'll last till he comes," she 
 began, again, twisting at the back of her glossy 
 black hair which was falling. "If she don't, I've 
 done all I could. She's only my half-sister any- 
 way. She's a half-breed, too; I'm Spanish. And 
 she's treated me cruel enough; but I don't want 
 her to die without the last Sacraments. What 
 more could I do, though? I've promised to 
 marry one of them long before I ever thought 
 to decide." 
 
 She laughed quite gaily. 
 
 "You see," she went on, crossing one bare 
 foot over the other. He noticed how high her 
 insteps were. "It's like this: they're the only 
 two men in the Valley with real Spanish blood, 
 and so I've got to marry one of them. I'm a 
 Castilian, I am," she said proudly, but smiling 
 rather cynically, as if in mockery of herself. 
 "Anyway, my grandfather was. Anunciato ain't 
 real Spanish; only Mexican. But he's the best 
 looking, and he's on his own horse, and he's got 
 the most money. Cristobal's the one I like 
 most, though, and his father was real Spanish. 
 But he's on that horse of yours. It just depends, 
 though, who meets the Father first." 
 
6 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 For some time the two sat staring out into 
 the bright sunlight. It was very quiet. 
 
 "Look at Blanca," said the girl. "The rain is 
 coming in a day or two." 
 
 Then she began to laugh. "It's funny I met 
 'em both just there, ain't it?" And added ten- 
 tatively, "I wonder what the other one will do." 
 She shook her head in doubt. 
 
 Suddenly she jumped up. The young man 
 followed her look up the road. There was com- 
 ing a cloud of sandy dust, golden in the fair 
 sunlight. Instinctively they looked the other 
 way, too, and there was another one, much 
 nearer. In this one the galloping horse could 
 be distinguished, and there seemed to be two 
 people on it. They could even hear the muffled 
 beat of the hoofs. 
 
 A shout from the first rider swung both heads 
 round towards him again. He was coming much 
 faster than the other. 
 
 "That's Anunciato," said the girl, her eyes 
 wide awake with excitement. "Your horse don't 
 come so fast." 
 
 However, both horses, arriving 'at the same 
 time, drew up so suddenly face to face that they 
 reared back on their haunches; and the priest 
 was beginning to slide down from behind Cris- 
 tobal. 
 
 At her first sight of the two wild riders' faces, 
 Dolores had darted into the house, and now was 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 7 
 
 out again with a little pearl revolver in her hand. 
 None too soon: for before the priest was down, 
 the man on the other horse, Anunciato, had 
 leveled his revolver at his rival. 
 
 The priest, leaning out from behind Cristobal, 
 cried, "Anunciato, I am here!" and Dolores 
 shouting, "I will never marry a murderer," shot 
 off her pistol towards Anunciato. Her report 
 rang only a thought before his; but her well- 
 aimed ball, passing through his broad hat, 
 knocked it down over his eyes so that he gave 
 a start and his ball \vent wild. He didn't shoot 
 again. 
 
 The priest, at once down from behind Cris- 
 tobal, with the skirt of his brown robe held up 
 in one hand and a small satchel in the other, was 
 running toward Dolores, who ran to meet him. 
 Before she reached him, Anunciato, on the 
 ground the moment after he fired, had flashed 
 past her, seized the priest, lifted him. bodily, and 
 turning had tottered into the porch, carrying 
 him, and set him down inside the door. 
 
 Then he quietly strolled into the road again, 
 supercilious, and tied his horse to the fence. 
 
 The young stranger, whose own horse stood 
 with lolling tongue in the road, sat down again 
 on the bench; and the two suitors took their 
 positions at either end of the porch, one with 
 a somewhat troubled, righteous air, the other 
 with an ironically triumphant smile. He spoke 
 
8 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL! 
 
 to each of them; but they seemed to know no 
 English. Both were of the fierce, black, south- 
 ern type,* handsome and greasy: the one who 
 had brought the priest on his horse had the more 
 prepossessing face. Both wore leather shaps, 
 flannel shirts, and spurred boots whose im- 
 mensely high heels gave them insteps as fine 
 as the girl's. 
 
 At last the girl came out. She had a white 
 lace mantilla thrown over her dark head, with 
 the ends arranged coquettishly round her brown 
 neck. In one hand she held a closed fan that 
 seemed to be of black lace and gold. Dolores 
 minced once or twice up and down the earthen 
 floor, with an affected strut. At last on reaching 
 Anunciato's end she halted, tossed her head 
 pertly, gave a little fling to the end of the white 
 lace, half-closed her eyes, and said in Spanish, 
 with a little drawl, something about "mantilla." 
 Then she swaggered back to Cristobal's end, and 
 spread the fan, and flirted it in the air. It had 
 a brilliant picture of a. bull-fight on it. She said 
 something to him in Spanish about the fan. He 
 made no more reply than Anunciato had, but 
 he looked at her with love in his eyes. 
 
 Dolores haughtily turned from him to come 
 with mincing steps to the young stranger in the 
 middle. Throwing back her head and regard- 
 ing him out of her half-closed eyes scornfully, 
 she said pettishly in English: "I mayn't keep this 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 9 
 
 mantilla, which was my mother's, because I ain't 
 a blonde. So it goes to the church." Then she 
 said, less affectedly: "Thank you for the horse." 
 
 Suddenly the priest emerged from the dark 
 doorway making the sign of the cross. The two 
 Spaniards jumped up with their spurs clanking 
 and took their hats off. 
 
 Dolores cried: "Why, it's Father Maria de 
 Jesus!" 
 
 The young stranger, who had just consulted 
 his watch, decided to risk catching his train. 
 
 "Who did you think I was?" asked the priest. 
 
 "I thought you were Padre Emanuele from 
 Antonito." 
 
 Anunciato, waving one hand in excitement, 
 cried gleefully: "Ha! she didn't tell you to bring 
 the Penitente father." 
 
 "Any priest would do just as well," growled 
 Cristobal. 
 
 "Then it doesn't count," laughed the other; 
 "she didn't tell us to get him." 
 
 Dolores was looking with troubled eyes from 
 one to the other. As Anunciato roared with 
 forced laughter, Cristobal's face grew blacker. 
 
 "He gave her the last Sacraments as well as 
 anybody," he insisted. 
 
 "Ha! but it's little Father Chucho!" sneered 
 the other. "She didn't tell us to bring him." 
 
 Cristobal squeezed his lips together. Then 
 he blurted, "Anyway, be still! You're a fool." 
 
10 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Anunciato again began his mocking laugh. 
 "The poor boy's cross," he jeered, "he's left out 
 this time." 
 
 With one sudden reach behind his hip and a 
 stretching forth of his right arm, -Cristobal fired 
 his revolver full into the other's chest. Anun- 
 ciato, in the middle of a laugh, dropped dead. 
 
 The other three in the porch stared blankly 
 at the murderer, who, with his hands trembling 
 a little, picked out his smoking cartridge shell 
 and dropped it on the ground, before he put back 
 his revolver. 
 
 Then he said in a hoarse voice: "I thought I'd 
 get this rival business finished." 
 
 "How dared you?" cried Dolores, with a sud- 
 den sob. "How dared you shoot my lover be- 
 fore me? You know I'll never marry a mur- 
 derer." 
 
 "Won't you come to Las Animas with me? I 
 did it for you. You promised to, Lola, and 
 and I brought the priest here," he pleaded 
 tremblingly. "Won't you?" 
 
 But Dolores, clinging to the priest's arm with 
 one hand, wiped her eyes on her white mantilla 
 with the other, and shook her head no, many 
 times, while she sobbed. 
 
 Cristobal looked hopelessly at her. Then he 
 turned to the priest: "I must get away quick. 
 Come inside and confess me." 
 
 The priest drew his arm away from the girl. 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS II 
 
 After they were gone in, the young stranger, 
 who had gathered the meaning of most of the 
 Spanish, asked her: "Are you going to marry 
 this one?" 
 
 She shook her head again. 
 
 "No," she said; "no, I can't. He shot Anun-' 
 ciato. So I can't. Anyway, not now." 
 
 She stood with set lips and dull eyes, gazing 
 down at the dead man. All her airs and graces 
 were fled, and it was a dejected young creature 
 that at last, after twice making the sign of the 
 cross and muttering some unintelligible words, 
 said in a weak voice: "Put him straight." 
 
 The young man looked at her. 
 
 Her chin quivered as she said: "Please lay him 
 straight. See how hunched up he is." 
 
 The young man, stooping gingerly, reached 
 out one hand and pushed the corpse flat on its 
 back; the arms fell into a natural position and 
 he had only to press down the knees a little. 
 
 Dolores looked on with dry eyes. There 
 was one dirty little spot of blood hardening on 
 the blue flannel shirt. 
 
 "Have you got a handkerchief?" the girl 
 asked quietly. "Thank you, I haven't got one. 
 Put it over him, there," she touched her bosom 
 to show. 
 
 Cristobal and the priest came slowly out again. 
 Turning to them, she asked with serious face: 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
12 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Get to Las Animas as quick as I can," an- 
 swered Cristobal, trying not to look at the long 1 
 figure lying at his feet. "Which way is that 
 stranger going?" he asked. "He won't peach, 
 will he?" 
 
 The girl translated the question. 
 
 "I'm going to catch the train north at La 
 Jara," he said, "and I've just about time." 
 
 "If you see the sheriff, you won't tell," inter- 
 rupted Dolores. 
 
 "Who is the sheriff?" 
 
 "Dave" 
 
 "Oh, he's my cousin. Don't worry! He's up 
 in the hills back there fishing, and won't be down 
 for three days." 
 
 "Of course, he will tell no one," put in the 
 priest in English. "It would be of no good. 
 Since he is repentant, God forgives him; and to 
 what purpose can man's vengeance serve?" 
 
 "No, I won't tell a soul," promised the strang- 
 er, "I've no* desire to 1 get a man " 
 
 Dolores repeated this in Spanish to Cristobal, 
 who had been listening with an anxious look on 
 his face. 
 
 "You will come with me," he said, seemingly 
 relieved. 
 
 "Certainly not," cried the priest with a step 
 forward. "Can you pretend to be truly repent- 
 ant, and yet keep the fruit of your crime? What 
 sort of forgiveness would you hope for then? 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 13 
 
 I have given you your penance. Go, do it. 
 That's the only way you will wash your bloody 
 hands of this murder. I will see that Dolores is 
 taken care of." 
 
 He put out his left hand to the man, who, with 
 a cowed look, held it, while the priest raised the 
 other in blessing. Then Cristobal turned and 
 without a word, crossing the road, began to 
 untie the dead man's horse from the fence. As 
 he stopped to let him drink at the trough, Do- 
 lores silently went over to him. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, darling," said he fervently, seizing 
 it. "You will come to me after a while; won't 
 you?" 
 
 "I don't know. 7 ' 
 
 "Don't say that, Lola. I did it for your sake. 
 You forgive me, don't you? Yes, I know you'll 
 come. I'll wait for you in Las Animas, I'll 
 wait two months, or I'll send you word if I 
 have to go to Mexico." 
 
 She let him pull her to him and kiss her 
 fiercely. 
 
 After he was on the horse he leaned down 
 from the high saddle, and looking into her face, 
 besought her, "Say you'll come." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "But I'll give you something to remember me 
 by," she said. 
 
 "The pistol!" he exclaimed eagerly, looking 
 
14 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 with covetous eyes at the white pearl handle of 
 it in the band of her skirt. 
 
 "No," she answered decisively. "This;" and 
 she drew the fan from her bosom. 
 
 As the horse gave a restless start he seized it, 
 and turned in the stirrups to wave it at her, as 
 he galloped away up the hot sandy road. 
 
 The young stranger prepared to start too. 
 The priest he shook by the hand, saying, "I hope 
 this will all turn out all right;" but Dolores's 
 hand he squeezed, and only said, "Good-bye, I 
 must catch my train. Good-bye." 
 
 After he was gone the priest said to the girl, 
 who was folding the white mantilla along its 
 creases: 
 
 "I will take you to San Rafael with me. You 
 can't stay here alone; and nobody will hurt 
 them," he motioned into the house; "we'll come 
 down again and see about burying her. But 
 first we must put him inside, too, before we go. 
 Help me," he said, stooping to put his hands un- 
 der the dead man's shoulders. 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't," shuddered Dolores, draw- 
 ing back. 
 
 So the priest alone dragged him inside. 
 
 The girl sinking down on the bench, leaned 
 against the wall with her hand over her eyes, 
 quite still; till she heard him call her. Jumping 
 up with a start, she stood outside the door. 
 
 "Come in and light this candle," he called. 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 15 
 
 "No," she answered, pleadingly, "I'm afraid to 
 go in." 
 
 She stood leaning against the door-post till he 
 came out again, holding a soiled cotton bag of 
 money. 
 
 "I found this; and it'll be safer to bring it." 
 
 "You ain't afraid that " began Dolores, wav- 
 ing her head towards the door. 
 
 "No, no! And anyway, I can't stay to watch. 
 My people expect me. And I wouldn't leave 
 you; and who else is there? Come." 
 
 "Wait," said Dolores, "I must have some 
 clothes;" and she went into the house. 
 
 By and by she came out again with a big 
 bundle tied in a red and black checked shawl; 
 and they started out together into the blazing 
 sunlight. 
 
 "How are we going?" she asked. 
 
 "On my donkey. I left him down here tied to 
 a fence when I met Cristobal." 
 
 "Well, you have got faith in the men in the 
 Valley," she said with a smile. 
 
 "Why, there ain't a man in the San Luis Val- 
 ley that would steal my donkey," he answered. 
 "They all know him; unless it might be the 
 Saints in Ephraim and Manassa." 
 
 They walked down the road to where the don- 
 key was. 
 
 The priest untied it and they got on/ he in 
 front in the low saddle, she astride behind him, 
 
16 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 holding her bundle. The donkey started off in 
 a slow gait, which was sometimes a dog-trot, but 
 generally a walk. The sun poured down on 
 them. There was not another living creature to 
 be seen. On either hand the hopeless tawny 
 desert spread rolling back to where in two bands 
 of mist there seemed to be steaming blue for- 
 ests, growing in shadowless, unstable blue 
 stretches of water. Overhead the sky was blank 
 of any relief in its blinding blue expanse. 
 
 With one arm Dolores clung to the Father, 
 with the other clasped her bundle. When she 
 found she could support this with her knee, she 
 let it go for a moment, and taking her pearl- 
 handled pistol from her belt she pushed it under 
 the shawl into the bundle. 
 
 She noticed how the black hair grew into tiny 
 twists, almost curls, on the priest's neck. Mak- 
 ing a mouth as if to whistle, she softly blew 
 among them., Then after a minute or so she 
 leaned forward and poked her nose, wrigglingly, 
 against his hair. The Father, who was assidu- 
 ously saying his beads, took no notice of these 
 caresses. 
 
 They slowly mounted the plateau at the foot 
 of the hills. Although a stream now came 
 alongside with real green trees by it, the sun still 
 beat down with all his intensity and the glare 
 never ceased. At last they drew near a scatter- 
 ing settlement of low brown houses. Near these 
 
ONE LOVER THE LESS 17 
 
 was a cubical, windowless adobe building with a 
 bare wooden belfry atop. Stuck up apparently 
 without purpose in the sand were several gaunt 
 black wooden crosses. 
 
 Thus they came riding into San Rafael of the 
 Penitentes. 
 
II 
 
 A GENUINE ZURBURAN 
 
 THE young man who had so* unexpectedly, 
 through the loan of his horse to aid a girl 
 in distress, become witness to a murder, 
 found plenty to think of as he continued his way 
 down towards the line of civilization, where the 
 railroad runs through the Valley. His horse, 
 even after a rest, was tired from its extraordinary 
 exertion, and moved along slowly through the 
 heat. This was now so great as to be almost un- 
 bearable; and the rider hailed with satisfaction 
 the sight of a village shaping itself tremulously 
 in the distance. He had, to be sure, rashly given 
 his word not to speak of the tragedy he had seen; 
 but he was filled with curiosity as to one or two 
 of the actors in it; and besides, this cluster of 
 brownish houses he was coming to must be An- 
 tonito, where he could find shade and shelter. 
 
 After traversing what seemed a very long dis- 
 tance farther after the first sight of the village, 
 he finally arrived at it. One or two large adobe 
 dwellings built round courts, a handful of smaller 
 adobe houses facing a deserted dusty-white 
 street, one or two wooden buildings, and the 
 church made up the place. The church, however, 
 
 18 
 
A GENUINE ZURBURAN 19 
 
 the most pretentious one, as he afterwards 
 learned, in the whole Valley had a certain 
 quaint and dignified prettiness, and a restful 
 color, that made it perhaps the one pleasing ob- 
 ject in the bleak miles of ugliness; and moreover 
 it was flanked by a cool-looking and inviting 
 priest's house, which gave upon a garden, the 
 one spot of green in the landscape. 
 
 With rather wistful eyes the traveler passed 
 this pleasant place, and drawing up some dis- 
 tance farther along the street at a disreputable 
 two-story wooden house, which bore the faded 
 inscription "Antonito Hotel," he dismounted. A 
 slouchy, fat individual, with one eye, appeared at 
 the open door, and after taking a black briar 
 pipe from his mouth, -said, choking a little: "Are 
 you lookin' for me? Want a room?" 
 
 "I don't think I care about a room, thank 
 you. I should like something cool and long to 
 drink, and you might put my horse somewhere 
 in the shade, if there's any spare time before the 
 train." 
 
 "Before the train?" wheezed the little fat man. 
 
 "The Denver train." 
 
 "The up train's gone. No other one till to- 
 morrow. I can give you a room for the night." 
 
 "No, thank you," said the stranger, rather 
 sharply. "I'll go on to La Jara when it gets 
 cooler. But you can put up the horse for a 
 while, and I'll come inside in the shade." 
 
20 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 He sat down and fanned himself with his hat 
 in the dingy room where the bar was. 
 
 "By the way/' he continued, as the landlord 
 limped about mixing and bringing him his drink, 
 which was long but not very cool, "there's some 
 good luck in every chance. I can go and see 
 that picture at the priest's house that's here, 
 isn't it? The Zurburan. And maybe the Father'll 
 tell me something about the Penitentes." 
 
 The landlord had just dropped a large heavy 
 book on the table in front of his guest, and after 
 relighting his black pipe, he opened it and 
 pointed with one fat finger, saying: "What do 
 you want to know about the Penitentes?" 
 
 The young man looked at the book at the 
 place indicated and then up at the one bleary 
 eye of the hotel-keeper, which was fixed on him. 
 
 "What's this got to do with them?" he asked. 
 
 "Write your name, that's all. Visitors' book." 
 
 The young man took the pen offered him and 
 wrote splutteringly, "Deloss Devlin," while the 
 other continued: "I reckon you won't find out 
 much about them from old Emanuele. 'Tain't 
 only that most generally he faints when he talks, 
 but I don't believe he's tellin' many tales to> 
 strangers. You see, some folks 'a' got a kind of 
 idea their a-goin' to try their tricks again this 
 fall, sence there's ben a change of sheriffs, and 
 most of the men, who could help form a posse, 
 out of the Valley, at Cripple Creek; only they'd 
 
A GENUINE ZURBURAN 21 
 
 ought to get the Mormons to run them out, if 
 they do try any of their funny business. The 
 Saints is the best of the two in my opinion, and 
 that ain't sayin' much." 
 
 "What do you call their funny business ?" 
 asked Devlin. 
 
 "Ah," wheezed the landlord, "you'd ought er 
 heard Jerry Somerson tell his tales about 'em. 
 Folks used to say he'd seen one o' their crucifix- 
 
 ions." 
 
 "One of their what!" cried Devlin. 
 
 "Their crucifixions. They ain't had one now 
 fer some time, but I reckon they're arranging it 
 for this season, 'cause I seen that priest o' theirs 
 down here to-day " 
 
 "You don't mean to say that he " began the 
 other. "Why, whom do they crucify?" 
 
 "Oh, one of their own lot. Best thing to do's 
 to let 'em kill themselves off that way, I always 
 says. I ain't got no religion myself and so I 
 don't get excited about it. But there is folks 
 that thinks it's very disgustin'." 
 
 "It's shameful! Do you mean to say noth- 
 ing's done to stop it? In the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, in America! Does the priest here, you say, 
 support it?" 
 
 "Ah, he's a poor sort of a creature," answered 
 the landlord; "I don't go much for priests my- 
 self, anyway, though I reckon some of 'em is all 
 right; but this here old Emanuele is kind o' 
 
22 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 daffy now, and ain't much better himself than 
 the Penitentes; and they're the lowest trash in 
 the whole San Luis Valley. I wouldn't advise 
 you to say nothin' to him about it." 
 
 "It ought to be stopped," exclaimed Devlin 
 fervently. 
 
 "Well, I guess nothin' short o' havin' some 
 soldiers down here'd stop 'em; there was some 
 talk of that once, awhile ago when they used to 
 be worse than what they are now. Folks is 
 kinder losin' interest in 'em lately." The land- 
 lord ended in a fit of smothered coughing 1 , and 
 recovering, sucked at his pipe, which had again 
 gone out. 
 
 "Then you tell me about them," suggested 
 Devlin; "if the priest won't. Who are they?" 
 
 The other slowly lighted his pipe again and 
 said: "They ain't much to tell's I knows of. 
 Folks say they come up here from Mexico 
 as long ago as before the Mexican War, and 
 they're the only ones I know of anywheres round 
 these parts; so I guess it's true all right. They're 
 peaceable citizens enough, not harmin' nobody 
 except themselves. Now and then they turn in 
 and have one o' these revivals and crucify some- 
 one, and I reckon that's about all there is to it." 
 
 "You're sure they do it? crucify, I mean," 
 persisted Devlin. 
 
 "O yes. I guess they ain't no doubts of 
 that." 
 
A GENUINE ZURBURAN 23 
 
 "And they're going to do it this year? When's 
 the time for it? Soon?" 
 
 At this juncture a rough-looking man in shaps 
 came noisily into the room and asked for 
 whisky. 
 
 "As fer whether they will or not, I guess only 
 themselves knows, and old Emanuele," replied 
 the hotel-keeper, getting up and limping behind 
 the bar; "and the day fer it comes along some- 
 wheres next month or maybe the month after." 
 
 "What's that?" demanded the new-comer 
 roughly, eyeing Devlin. 
 
 "The Penitentes," replied the landlord. 
 
 "Are they up to their damn tricks again?" 
 said the man nonchalantly. 
 
 Devlin rose. 
 
 "I'll be back for my horse," he said, starting 
 out. 
 
 "You won't get no satisfaction," called the 
 landlord after him, divining his destination. 
 
 He had divined right. Devlin walked slowly 
 back to the church, keeping in the shade; and 
 turned in through the neat but rather arid gar- 
 den. He knocked at the door of the priest's 
 house. It was presently opened by a gaunt 
 elderly woman, who looked him over sharply. 
 
 "Might I see Father Emanuele?" he asked. 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "I thought perhaps he would show me his 
 famous painting," he replied tentatively. 
 
24 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 With pursed lips she glared at him for a few 
 moments. 
 
 "I'll ask him," she then said; "he's ill, and I 
 don't like to have him disturbed for nothing;" 
 and she closed the door in his face. 
 
 A minute later she opened it again, saying: 
 "You may come in; but don't stay too long." 
 
 She opened another door on her right. Dev- 
 lin went into a large, dim, but comfortable look- 
 ing room, where a fat, soft-looking priest in a 
 black robe stood awaiting him. 
 
 "You have come," he began in a thick, tremul- 
 ous voice, "to see the famous picture. Here it 
 is." He pointed to a large, dingy painting in a 
 heavy, tarnished gold frame, which hung on the 
 wall. "It came from Mexico many years ago; 
 and it is a genuine Zurburan, signed." His 
 breath seemed to fail him, and he sat down in a 
 large arm chair, gasping and holding his hand 
 over his heart. 
 
 "You must excuse me," he said, when he re- 
 covered his breath; "I am not very well. This 
 morning I had a very bad attack, and my duties 
 are so heavy." 
 
 Devlin mumbled some words of sympathy; 
 and stared at the faded painting, which, Zur- 
 buran though it might be, was not only very 
 hard to make out, but seemed scarcely worth the 
 effort. 
 
 "I suppose it ought properly to hang in the 
 
A GENUINE ZURBURAN 25 
 
 church," went on the priest; "but it always has 
 hung here, and I hate to change it. It is so val- 
 uable, too." 
 
 "You dislike giving" up old customs," ven- 
 tured Devlin, turning to him; "I am so much in- 
 terested in the Penitentes." 
 
 "Hey?" asked Father Emanuele blankly. 
 
 "I say, speaking of old customs, I am so much 
 interested in what I hear of the Penitentes of San 
 Rafael. I happened' to meet their Driest this 
 morning." 
 
 "Father Maria de Jesus is a very estimable and 
 pious man," said the other. 
 
 'So he seemed. They are a curious people, 
 are they not? The Penitentes? With some pe- 
 culiar rites of their own?" 
 
 The priest stared at him vaguely, and then re- 
 plied: "Oh, yes, yes; they are a simple folk, part- 
 ly Indian. I suppose their life is different from 
 that of most of us; very pious, though, and 
 holy." 
 
 Just as Devlin was about to try another at- 
 tack the priest said suddenly: "You are a Cath- 
 olic?" 
 
 "No," replied Devlin, and added, as his host 
 shook his head sadly, "but I have the greatest 
 admiration for the Catholic Church in general." 
 
 "I wish you were to remain here some time," 
 said Emanuele, "that I might have the honor to 
 convert you." 
 
26 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Devlin smiled 
 
 Again the sallow face of the priest grew paler; 
 with a gasp he put his left hand over his heart, 
 and leaning back in his chair, stretched out his 
 other ambiguously. 
 
 Devlin seized the opportunity to take the 
 outstretched hand, saying he must go. As he 
 thanked him for the chance to see the painting, 
 Emanuele seemed to revive somewhat, and at- 
 tempted to rise; but his visitor last saw him sink- 
 ing back once more into his chair. 
 
 In the hall he caught sight of the elderly female 
 hovering about darkly, and as he went out, saw 
 her reopen the door of the room he had left and 
 go in. 
 
 He returned to the hotel again, where he 
 found Wezel ministering in the bar to half a 
 dozen of the natives of Antonito. As the after- 
 noon was now beginning to be cooler, he asked 
 to have his horse; and Wezel, who was his own 
 hostler as well as his own bartender, soon found 
 a chance to bring the animal round to the door. 
 
 "Well, I guess you didn't get much 'satisfac- 
 tion from the old man," he said, grinning, as he 
 held the horse. 
 
 Devlin shook his head. 
 
 "The only way to stop 'em'd be to get the blue- 
 coats down here and .clean 'em out," said Wezel; 
 "unless you could rouse up the Saints to do it," 
 
Ill 
 
 AT SAN RAFAEL 
 
 A Father Maria de Jesus and Dolores on 
 the donkey rode up the gentle incline, 
 leading to San Rafael, the priest, hang- 
 ing his rosary through his rope girdle, half turned 
 to the girl and said: "I will get Panchita to> take 
 you in. To be sure, she has Pasco there; but he 
 is a quiet fellow and her house is big. I trust you 
 will decide to stay among us here. We are a quiet 
 people; we have no excitements like those in the 
 plain, like the one to-day, for instance. All 
 the force of our feelings we put into our religion, 
 giving it to God and His Mother. That man- 
 tilla of yours you will offer to San Rafael for his 
 altar, will you not? You can't wear it, and it 
 would look beautiful there, and he will be so 
 pleased." 
 
 She nodded. "If you wish," she said. 
 When they were near the brown church he 
 turned the donkey on to the open. Coiled up 
 on the ground a man was lying in the sun there. 
 He was the only person visible; till from the 
 nearest house, a wider one than most of them, 
 came hurrying a withered woman in a draggled 
 gown. 
 
 Putting one rough hand on the donkey's 
 37 
 
28 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 neck, an^ Booking up with bleary, eager old eyes, 
 "What news?" asked she. "Does he say yes? 
 Shall we have our fete?" 
 
 "All in God's good time, Oestocris," replied 
 the priest. "See this young woman. I have 
 brought her here to stay with us." 
 
 The old woman looked so searchingly at Do- 
 lores that she colored under her dark skin. 
 
 "Who is she? She's a good Catholic?" 
 
 "O!" cried the priest deprecatingly. "Now, 
 Oestocris! Would I bring a heretic among us? 
 Or a Saint?" 
 
 "What's her name?" asked Oestocris sharply. 
 
 "Lola," ventured Dolores. 
 
 "Lola, aha!" repeated the old woman; and 
 then turning her eyes again to the Father, "and 
 we shall have it?" 
 
 "To-morrow you shall hear all about it," re- 
 plied he, clucking to his donkey. 
 
 "To-morrow!" jeered the old dame mocking- 
 ly. "Where you going now?" 
 
 "To my house, of course." 
 
 "Yes; to your house," she muttered. "You 
 mean you are going to tell Cristoke all about 
 everything." 
 
 "Cristoke shall hear nothing any sooner than 
 you," he reassured her. 
 
 "Where's that girl going to stay?" she called 
 after him. 
 
 "With Panchita," called back the priest.. 
 
AT SAN RAFAEL 29 
 
 Mumbling crossly, the old creature hobbled 
 back with dragging skirt to her house. 
 
 At the next house a girl came out into the 
 porch and stood looking at them. While Do- 
 lores was staring back at this girl, who wore a 
 red waist, the priest got off and took the bridle 
 to lead by. At another little house a little dog 
 was fast asleep in front of two old men who lay 
 back against the wall, feeling the sun on their 
 eyelids. 
 
 All three awoke at once. As the dog stood 
 wagging all over and making an internal noise 
 like muffled growling, one of the old men limped 
 briskly forward, and the other followed. 
 
 "God and the Archangel have prospered you 
 in your mission, Father Chucho?" wheezed the 
 first old man. 
 
 The other one stared at Dolores. 
 
 "I trust they have, Cristoke," said the priest. 
 "But I have promised Oestocris to tell nobody 
 about it till to-morrow. So go back to your 
 prayers." 
 
 Sunday morning Dolores was hysterical. She 
 lay on her bed sobbing; and when Panchita came 
 and said kindly, "Come, Lola, the bell is ringing 
 for mass," she only sobbed the more. 
 
 "Lola," urged Panchita, shaking her gently 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 Dolores, sitting up in bed, began to< laugh 
 nervously in her hostess's face. 
 
30 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Come, we must hurry," she repeated. 
 
 "I won't go," choked Dolores in the middle of 
 a laugh. 
 
 Panchita's hand dropped from the girl's 
 shoulder; and Dolores buried her face and shook 
 with sobs. The fat Panchita, dazed, retreated 
 from the dark little room. In the porch she 
 found her son Pasco, patiently waiting. He 
 had on white cotton trousers and a rather clean 
 blue flannel shirt. His head and feet were bare. 
 
 "I don't know what to do about that girl," 
 said his mother despairingly. 
 
 Pasco only looked at her in impassive silence. 
 
 "I suppose I'll have to speak to the Father and 
 send him down here to get her. Come on." 
 
 They met the priest at the church door. 
 While Panchita explained, Pasco stared solemn- 
 ly at the two of them. 
 
 "Well, let her be," said Father Maria de Jesus. 
 "She's excited and sick, poor girl!" 
 
 "But, Father, miss mass!" Panchita was hor- 
 rified; and even Pasco's placid eyes seemed to 
 grow intense. 
 
 "She shall confess it to me to-morrow," he 
 replied indulgently; "and you know God arid the 
 Blessed Virgin are there with her in your house 
 as well as in the church with us. People from 
 the plain lose control of themselves more than 
 we do; and we must make allowances," 
 
AT SAN RAFAEL 31 
 
 But Panchita took early occasion after church 
 to warn her son that that girl could not be a 
 very good Catholic and that they should have 
 to be careful. To which Pasco made no verbal 
 reply. 
 
 Mass was never said in the Penitente church 
 that all the forty-odd inhabitants of San Rafael, 
 down to the youngest naked baby, were not 
 there. This morning only Dolores was absent. 
 The windowless adobe walls were hung with the 
 cheapest shiny chromo pictures of the Blessed 
 Virgin, the Infant Jesus, Christ showing his 
 bleeding heart, and divers Saints. On the white 
 painted altar was already spread the white man- 
 tilla; on it stood two red pottery jugs filled with 
 green leaves; and above the crucifix with its life- 
 sized waxen corpus hung San Rafael in oils, with 
 tremendous crude blue and yellow wings, and 
 holding a cross. 
 
 Before the sermon the small boy in scarlet who 
 served mass, stepped down and sat on the edge 
 of the railless chancel; and Father Maria de Jesus 
 in his grass-green chasuble, after kissing the 
 stole, put it on. Then all the Penitentes rising 
 made the sign, and muttered the invocation in 
 the same breath with him. 
 
 He waited till they were again seated with 
 their eyes fixed on him, when, looking over the 
 heads first of the man on one side, then of the 
 woman on the other, then out the open door to 
 
32 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 the mountains in the blue distance, he began his 
 sermon: 
 
 "Penitentes, it is well known to all of us, how 
 when our fathers left Mexico and set out into 
 the wilderness to find a land for themselves, San 
 Rafael going before them in a cloud, led the way 
 here. That was before any of us was born; but 
 I have heard the story from those who followed 
 our patron through the desert from Santa Fe, 
 and so have one or two of you." (All the wom- 
 en looked at Oestocris, and the men at Cris- 
 toke.) "They themselves are all dead long ago. 
 When they arrived at this place, which the 
 Blessed Virgin had promised them in a vision, 
 San Rafael manifested himself to them in human 
 form, and crucified himself on this very spot; 
 where they built this church to mark and to 
 memorize the miracle. Without windows they 
 built it, for the Lord is the light of it. 
 
 "His pious followers were transported with joy 
 at the Archangel's goodness and condescension 
 in thus giving himself to be an expiation for their 
 sins, in imitation of our most Blessed Lord; and 
 they made a perpetual vow to celebrate forever 
 the anniversary of this sacrifice. This vow of 
 theirs, solemnly made to San Rafael and to God, 
 is binding on us. 
 
 "In those happy, innocent days when the Val- 
 ley was as God made it, before the railroad came 
 and it was full of whites and Saints and sinners 
 
AT SAN RAFAEL 33 
 
 of all kinds, the celebration was kept every year. 
 I can remember, when I was a child, twenty 
 crosses and more erected here, round about this 
 church, each one marking the sacred spot of one 
 of these pious sacrifices. Now how many are 
 there? Six! Six in all; and some of those rep- 
 resent a good work undertaken, but unfortunate- 
 ly never ended. 
 
 "Penitentes, it is three years since we have 
 kept our own special, holy fete of San Rafael, 
 since we have kept it fittingly and to the honor 
 and glory of God, as a humble emulation of the 
 sacrifice of His Son and as an expiation of sin. 
 I know we are a good people; I know that in 
 God's eyes we are the salt of this Valley; but I 
 know there is wickedness among us, too<. Wick- 
 edness that I alone do* know; for it has been con- 
 fessed to me as your Father. And as for the 
 Valley below us, we all know what a den of cor- 
 ruption that is. There are the two cities of the 
 infidel 'Saints/ as they call themselves, new 
 cities of the plain; and even among those that 
 profess to be Catholic Christians there is no end 
 of their murder and greed and adultery and lying 
 and horse-stealing and gambling. 
 
 "And if we are better than they, is that any 
 reason for us to set ourselves up on our hill and 
 wait for the wrath of God to destroy them? No! 
 If there should come a cyclone to-morrow and 
 root up Ephraim and Manassa, and blow down 
 
34 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Antonito and La Jara, would that be a cause of 
 rejoicing to us? No; a cause of sorrow. Noah 
 went into his ark when the flood came, and took 
 in his wife and family and his oxen and mules 
 and dogs; and then he locked the door on the 
 poor drenched sinners outside crying to him to 
 save them. But Noah was not a Catholic. San 
 Rafael had never led him through the desert 
 from Mexico'. That was before God had taught 
 men Christian charity, and put the light of Christ 
 before them, and showed them how to save this 
 wicked world; before He had commanded us to 
 go and do likewise in memory of Him. 
 
 "Besides, there is a sin of our own that I will 
 tell you of, not a private sin, but an open, pub- 
 lic one. God has led us into a paradise and we 
 neglect it. You are lazy, Penitentes. Every 
 one sees it. The heretic mocks us! You have 
 good lands that God gave you, and yet where is 
 this summer's crop? Down in the plain the 
 heathen have fields of potatoes and alfalfa, and 
 we here have nothing. 
 
 "God does not like this, brothers; and it is one 
 of the things we have to expiate. But we have 
 not only to expiate it; we have to remedy it. So, 
 I tell you all, go to work to-morrow and give up 
 lying in the sun all day; and when our fete ar- 
 rives God and San Rafael and the Blessed Virgin 
 will aid us, and we will keep the holy feast in 
 their honor, which we were forced to give up last 
 year." 
 
AT SAN RAFAEL 35 
 
 He stood looking at them a moment. Then 
 he lifted his arm to make the sign of the cross. 
 He turned again to> the altar with its tears of 
 yellow candle flame, and continued mass. 
 
 The ceremony finished, the Penitentes silently 
 filed out into the brilliant sunshine. Once out 
 of doors, they began to talk glibly enough, form- 
 ing into groups near the church door. As soon 
 as the father came out in his brown robe they 
 gathered about him and several voices at once 
 asked him, "Who is it to be, Father?" 
 
 Smiling, he shook his head. 
 
 "Who will be the Christ, Father?" cried Oes- 
 tocris shrilly. 
 
 At her, too, he smiled enigmatically, and re- 
 plied, "God will tell us." 
 
 Then glancing round the group he said, with 
 a serious look in his black eyes: "Remember, 
 my children, what I told you in there about your 
 fields. We cannot have our neighbors making 
 fun of our sloth. Rest to-day, for it is the Sab- 
 bath. But to-morrow no more laziness. If you 
 are not all in the fields, except those who have 
 other necessary work, I will put off the festival 
 till next year." 
 
 With another glance round the circle of sober 
 faces, stepping out from among them, he started 
 towards his house. They fell to talking again; 
 but Oestocris and the limping old Cristoke fol- 
 lowed him,. Each took one of his arms in its 
 
36 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 rough loose sleeve, and each turned a jealous old 
 eagle-like face to him. 
 
 "We'll remember, Father," began the old 
 crone, wheedlingly, trying to soften her sharp 
 voice, "I'll take out a hoe myself to-morrow and 
 poke among the weeds as hard as I'm able; I'll 
 set my boy Paez to sharpen the hoe this after- 
 
 noon." 
 
 "To-morrow, you mean, Oestocris," growled 
 the old man hoarsely; "didn't Father Chucho 
 say no work was to be done on the Sabbath? 
 And God told him to say so." 
 
 "That work itself is holy," retorted old Oes- 
 tocris, "because Father Chucho' preached it to 
 us. But even if we don't begin till to-morrow I 
 expect we'll start before you get your old bones 
 to moving." 
 
 "Yes," interposed the priest, soothingly; "we 
 must all get our crops out. I promised Father 
 Emanuele not to> delay it any longer. He 
 blamed me for not having got at it already." 
 
 "Emanuele has no business to blame you," 
 cried the old woman angrily. 
 
 "Hush," reproved he, "don't say that." 
 
 "I will say," she persisted, "that he would do 
 very well to spend his time in as many holy deeds 
 as you do. Tell me, Father," she wheedled, 
 "who is to be our Christ." 
 
 "I told you," he insisted, "that I don't know. 
 God will tell us. We must pray to Him to 
 
. AT SAN RAFAEL 37 
 
 quicken our eyes. But I will say to you two," 
 he went on, looking from one to the other of the 
 eager, fiercely-moulded old faces, "that in about 
 four days we shall invoke the Holy Spirit to 
 come down upon us and point out the chosen 
 one. Friday, I think, when we are fasting and 
 therefore clear-sighted." 
 
IV 
 
 A PROMISE OF HELP 
 
 D'EVLIN had been much impressed not 
 only by what he had been able to 
 learn about the Penitentes, but also 
 by the horrors that his imagination led him 
 to build on his rather scant knowledge; and 
 they continued to occupy his thoughts, 
 both on his ride from Antonito to La Jara, 
 and largely for some time after. It seemed 
 to him a crime greater than that of the mis- 
 guided people themselves for others more en- 
 lightened to allow such practices as theirs to go 
 on; and he before very long decided that some 
 duty in the matter was his, and resolved to do 
 what he could to fulfil it. Wezel's suggestions 
 about soldiers had not much impressed him. 
 Filled as he always had been- with a great respect 
 and admiration for the Roman Catholic Church, 
 a respect unshaken even by the sight of such in- 
 effectual workers in it as Father Emanuele, he 
 felt that it lay with that tremendous institution 
 to cleanse itself of the blot on its fair escutcheon; 
 which, besides, he felt it could do more efficiently 
 and more gently perhaps than the strong arm of 
 the military. 
 
 With this idea still strong in his mind, he con- 
 
 38 
 
A PROMISE OF HELP 39 
 
 trived soon after his arrival at Denver to procure 
 a letter to the principal of the Jesuit College 
 there. 
 
 The college, a heavily impressive building, 
 stands in large grounds, the front part of them 
 being laid out in a fair garden, the side in a 
 great bare field, with football goals at its farther 
 end. The front door sprung open at once on 
 Devlin's ringing, and a severe serving man in 
 black took his card and his letter, and ushering 
 him into a parlor, said he would carry them to 
 Father Mansifee. It was a huge, gaunt room, 
 with neatly drawn shades. On the four walls 
 hung four paintings,! one an excellent copy of 
 Murillo's Immaculate Conception, the others 
 portraits of Ignatius Loyola, of the suave and 
 genial Pius Ninth, and of the kindly and beauti- 
 ful statesman, Leo the Thirteenth., In a few 
 minutes the principal came in. A tall, thin man, 
 with a keenly intellectual and ascetic face, he was 
 stamped clearly gentleman and man of the world. 
 In a voice which rang peculiarly true, he said a 
 few formal words of greeting. 
 
 Devlin at once jumped to his subject. "I 
 have come to ask you to talk over an important 
 matter." 
 
 The priest's expression slightly changed. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you wished to go over the 
 school," he said. "If it is business, may I ask 
 you to come again? I am very much occupied." 
 
40 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "It is not precisely business," said the visitor, 
 turning to go. 
 
 The Jesuit laid a hand on the young man's 
 shoulder. "You will excuse me I know. Come 
 to-morrow, can't you, at three, and we'll have a 
 chance to discuss the matter. Is it personal? 
 No*; then you'll not object to a few of my col- 
 leagues being present." 
 
 Devlin bowed at the door of the room; but 
 Father Mansifee followed him out to open the 
 front door for him. 
 
 "I am sorry," he repeated, "to be so hurried; 
 tomorrow at three." 
 
 Devlin, somewhat uncertain as to whether or 
 not he was prepossessed by this very business- 
 like churchman, but with his purpose stronger 
 than ever in his mind, returned the next day at 
 the hour set. He was received by the principal in 
 the same gaunt parlor, but this time with a so- 
 ciable air that set him somewhat at his ease; al- 
 though when at the sounding of a large gong, 
 his host conducted him through one or two 
 long bare hallways, where he saw files of boys 
 marching in the distance, he felt once more out 
 of place. 
 
 The principal led him into a small room, 
 where there were two other priests waiting for 
 them. They were both in black and smooth- 
 shaven, and despite the individual diversity of 
 their faces, had the same keen, cleanly, and cul- 
 
A PROMISE OF HELP 41 
 
 tured look, and the same quiet refinement of 
 manner. 
 
 Father Mansifee presented his young guest to 
 his two associates, each of whom, as his name 
 was mentioned, rose and bowed. The one next 
 to Devlin shook his hand cordially. The intro- 
 ductions over, the principal turned to Devlin and 
 said: "If you feel ready to broach the matter 
 you mentioned, now, I am sure these gentlemen 
 will be equally interested with myself in hearing 
 it." 
 
 The eyes of all three were on the stranger as 
 he answered, hesitating somewhat with embar- 
 rassment: "It may seem to you presumptuous 
 on my part, but I feel sure you don't know, or 
 at any rate, don't appreciate, how to well, 
 to what degraded customs religion has led some 
 of your fellow Catholics in this State." 
 
 There was a momentary pause. Father 
 Mansifee, seeing the hot blush that spread over 
 the young man's face, said courteously: "You 
 are a Protestant." Devlin nodded. "I am sure 
 there are some* Protestants who would not be 
 so kind as to attribute our shortcomings to our 
 ignorance." 
 
 Devlin gave him a glance of gratitude. 
 
 One of the three Jesuits assented in a calm, 
 smooth voice: 
 
 "Father Mansifee certainly expresses the 
 pleasure all of us feel in realizing that the time 
 
42 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 has come when those who have fault to find with 
 our Church, do so as man to man, whereas they 
 often used to resort to the press. It undoubted- 
 ly makes us quite as anxious to redress any 
 grievances that may occur in the merely human 
 management of any institution no matter how 
 sacred." 
 
 The flush faded from the young man's face as 
 he answered with a great deal of forceful sincer- 
 ity: "It is only because I respect your Church 
 so much that I came to you, because I feel that 
 you can stop it. I am sure you do not know 
 that the Penitentes down in the San Luis Valley 
 are preparing to have another crucifixion." 
 
 There was again a momentary pause. 
 
 "I have heard of the Penitentes," said one 
 of the Jesuits. 
 
 "You are quite right," said Father Mansi- 
 fee, "in believing that this is news to us. When 
 is this crucifixion to take place?" 
 
 "On San Rafael's Day," answered Devlin; and 
 he went on and told them all he had learned 
 about the matter. 
 
 The Jesuits listened to his account serenely; 
 only interrupting and helping him out with two 
 or three pertinent questions. 
 
 "It is very dreadful," said Father Mansifee, 
 shaking his head, when Devlin had finished; and 
 then added, "I can only admire your judgment 
 in bringing this grievance before us, though I re- 
 
A PROMISE OF HELP 43 
 
 gret that it should need to be done by a person 
 outside the Church. But it would certainly 
 be a hideous mockery, and an impossibility, that 
 the one institution which has outlived the cen- 
 turies and has always been in the fore-front of 
 modern thought, should permit such a blasphem- 
 ous outrage of one of its most sacred tenets 
 to continue, once it has been brought to its 
 notice. But though the end is obvious, the 
 means require .careful thought. As a matter of 
 fact, you know, we have no jurisdiction in such 
 matters. Only the bishop can order it stopped; 
 and knowing, as I do, the bigotry and lawless- 
 ness of the Penitentes, I doubt if they would 
 obey him. We can, of course, use our influence 
 to help. Your friend Wezel thinks," he con- 
 tinued, "that the army should be called upon to 
 interfere. Undoubtedly he knows more about 
 the Penitentes than either you or we, being on 
 or near the spot." 
 
 One of the others, however, suggested: "An 
 ignorant person on the spot may probably know 
 less than an educated man at a distance." 
 
 "Quite true," agreed Father Mansifee. 
 "What is best of all is an educated man on the 
 spot. But nevertheless I think there is a good 
 deal in Mr. Wezel's suggestion. Beyond a 
 doubt, these poor people are out of their heads 
 with religious mania, and the clearest seeing and 
 most persuasive of preachers might argue in 
 
44 
 
 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 vain. He might of course prevent the occur- 
 rence of their crucifixion while he remained 
 among them; but probably his influence would 
 end with his departure. On the other hand, a 
 body of troops who could be so timed as to ar- 
 rive on the scene and take them red-handed in 
 the act, would be justified, I suppose, in arrest- 
 ing all those implicated; and in the end they 
 might either be committed to some asylum, or 
 else scattered here and there in small groups, 
 where their influence would be harmless." 
 
 "The greatest difficulty," put in one of the 
 party, "would be to have the movements of a 
 body of troops so nicely timed." 
 
 Everyone smiled. 
 
 "Perhaps the movements of our army are not 
 governed with such diplomatic precision," ad- 
 mitted the principal; and turning to* Devlin, he 
 continued; "I do not want you to think we 
 are trying to avoid the responsibility, which I 
 ought to say we thank you for putting upon us. 
 I assure you we shall look into the matter and do 
 not mean to shirk it. I shall speak to the pro- 
 vincial about it and consult him as to the 
 propriety of telling Colonel Lawless. But, I 
 think," he said, with a slight smile, "that even 
 if the main work is handed over to the military 
 arm we shall be represented also in the field." 
 
 "San Rafael's Day is not for some time yet, I 
 believe," said Devlin. 
 
A PROMISE OF HELP 45 
 
 "Next month/' responded the Jesuit. 
 
 In a few minutes he rose, and so did all the 
 others. They stood silent while he said to his 
 guest, "I must say once more how much we all 
 thank you. And when at last this unfortunate 
 superstition is stamped out along- with others 
 brought originally from Spain, stamped out, I 
 may add, perhaps through the efforts of that 
 great religious army which also owes its origin 
 to Spain, then you will be justified in feeling 
 proud of your part in the matter. And," he 
 added, "let me express for us all, our wish and 
 prayer that you may by that time see your way 
 to being one of the great Church you are even 
 now helping to defend and serve." 
 
 The other Jesuits bowed graciously to Devlin; 
 the one next him cordially shook his hand, 
 saying, "Amen, to the Father's prayer!" and the 
 principal himself opened the door they had en- 
 tered by and ushered him out. 
 
 "Be sure," he said, as he shook hands with 
 him in the vestibule, "that your efforts will not 
 have been fruitless, nor your humanity unre- 
 warded," and he bowed most courteously to his 
 departing guest. 
 
A GREAT FEAR 
 
 ATER the murder of Anunciato and 
 his parting from Dolores, Cristobal 
 on the dead man's horse went gallop- 
 ing off to the east toward Las Animas Coun- 
 ty; but before he had ridden long, even in 
 his perturbed brain, thoughts began to 1 form 
 themselves and to persist. And the thought that 
 troubled him most, becoming finally so fierce 
 that it drove all other ideas of safety from him, 
 was that he had left there at the house, besides 
 the dead body of Dolores's sister, that other dead 
 body, lying in the shadow truly, but likely 
 enough to be found even before he could get 
 back there and hide it. He turned his sweating 
 horse, cursing himself for a fool, and drove the 
 rowels cruelly into the weary animal's sides. 
 
 He forgot that this was Anunciato's horse he 
 rode; he only remembered that if the body were 
 hidden it would be natural enough for everyone 
 tO' think that Anunciato had gone off again on 
 one of his sudden trips to New Mexico. Then 
 he would be safe. 
 
 There was no one in sight on the dusty yellow 
 roads. He made a detour to avoid any village 
 or ranch house. The setting sun shone into his 
 
 46 
 
A GREAT FEAR 47 
 
 eyes from over the western hills and dazzled 
 him; but fate seemed to be leading him along by 
 the right way. As he neared the low brown house 
 where the dead were, he drew in his horse, going 
 slower and slower from a trot to a walk, and at 
 last stopping still. The horse stood in the mid- 
 dle of the road, its sides heaving, its head hang- 
 ing low, exhausted. For a minute Cristobal sat 
 there as in a dream. Then he raised himself in 
 his high stirrups, and looked around about him 
 over the Valley on all sides. In the thickening 
 dusk of evening he saw nobody; in the hush of 
 twilight he heard no sound, except the panting 
 of his horse, and the gurgle of the artesian well 
 opposite the house.. It was a house of a dull, 
 somber brown, with the blackness of night in- 
 side its open doors and windows. He was 
 afraid to go there. 
 
 He patted his horse's flank to give himself 
 comfort, but there was no comfort for him; and 
 shaking his head disconsolately, he laid the rein 
 against the patient beast's neck. Even while 
 the horse turned, Cristobal changed his mind 
 again, and made it turn full around. He felt a 
 strong desire impelling him to go to the house 
 and to see the man he had murdered,! to see 
 him and to touch him. Slowly he dismounted, 
 and, trembling, led the weary horse to the fence 
 across the road. Tying it there, he gathered 
 himself together and tried to approach the house. 
 
48 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 He could not move. He dared not. For a 
 long while he stood still as death, trembling. 
 At last with a great effort he took a step for- 
 ward. 
 
 The sun, red as wine, suddenly dropped be- 
 hind the hills, and a moment after the Valley was 
 dark. Cristobal stooping, leaned over the water- 
 trough and put his hands together to drink; 
 but before he might drink, he straightened up 
 again with a start, looking about him as though 
 he had heard something. After waiting to lis- 
 ten to the intense silence, he ventured to take 
 off his hat, and having filled it with water from 
 the well stream, drank. 
 
 He murmured a prayer, making the sign of 
 the cross, and went cautiously over to the house 
 and into the porch. 
 
 He bent down and felt for the body. It was 
 not there where it had lain in the porch. A 
 great fear came upon him that some one had 
 already been there and found it. He moved 
 about the porch, feeling for it with his feet. It 
 was nowhere there. He stopped, stunned. 
 Then the idea flashed upon him that the priest 
 had buried it; or had taken it into the house. 
 At the open door he hesitated only a second be- 
 fore plunging into intense darkness inside. No 
 sooner was he in the house than he gave a loud 
 cry, from sheer fright; and then cowered in a 
 corner, waiting. Utter silence followed. 
 
A GREAT FEAR 49 
 
 With shaking fingers he drew a match from his 
 pocket and struck it. In its sudden glare he 
 had sight of all the room with its shadows, of 
 the dead woman in the bed, and of the dead man 
 there at his feet. He dropped the match. But 
 he had seen where a candle stood on a table; to- 
 ward which, with care not to stumble over the 
 body on the floor, he groped his way, and lighted 
 it. 
 
 There was not a breath of air to move the 
 flame. In the dim but steady light his courage 
 came in some measure back to him; and his 
 first impulse led him to take the candle and 
 examine the only other room in the house. 
 There was nothing there. 
 
 After some search he found a spade lying in a 
 corner, and with it he came back into the room 
 of the dead. The face of the woman on the bed 
 was hidden by the sheet over her, but the face 
 of Anunciato stared up at him with its closed 
 eyes. He took the handkerchief, which Dolores 
 had had put over the bloody spot on the dead 
 man's shirt, and dropped it over the face. 
 
 Then he set to work with the spade. He dug 
 near the wall, as it was his plan to hide the grave 
 by moving the bed over it. He was forced 
 therefore to turn his back on the room; but 
 after every spadeful of sand he would glance 
 behind him over his shoulders furtively. The 
 sand made a low caressing noise, as it slipped 
 
SO THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 from the spade. All at once he heard a sound, 
 and stopped digging, holding the spade in the 
 air. It was only his horse kicking restlessly 
 against the watering trough; but it caused him 
 to turn and smash his palm down on the candle 
 flame, extinguishing it. He shook again with 
 fear, thinking how some one might have passed 
 and looked in. 
 
 In the dark he dug with difficulty and had no 
 way to know when the grave was deep enough, 
 but by going into it to measure. At last he 
 had finished; and, hot with his toil, he rested, 
 sickened at the thought of touching the man he 
 had murdered. As he stood there in the dark 
 and the silence the idea came to him that per- 
 haps it was not the priest who had brought the 
 body in there. He had heard before of the un- 
 buried dead moving from place to place for the 
 sake of companionship. He felt for another 
 match and lighted it. No, the bodies still lay 
 there motionless in their places. But then he. 
 had heard, too, of the murdered dead refusing to 
 lie quiet in their graves. These night stories 
 shook him now and chilled him. He would have 
 run from the house, except that there was no 
 way out but past those two. He could hear his 
 own teeth chatter. Until the flame burned his 
 fingers, he did not drop the match. 
 
 He dared not stay there longer in the dark, 
 whatever might come of it; and he lighted the 
 
A GREAT FEAR 5 1 
 
 wan candle again. Then he dreaded to stay 
 there with the light on his deeds; and his very 
 dread nerved him to lay strong hands on the 
 murdered man and to* drag him across the floor 
 and tumble him into the grave. In hopes that 
 the body might more surely lie quiet if it were 
 comfortable, he forced himself to go down on 
 his knees, and to lean over and straighten its legs 
 and arms. Then springing up, he shoveled back 
 the sand with a sudden desperate haste, and 
 stamped it down smooth. With the same energy 
 he pulled out the bed with the dead woman lying 
 under the white sheet upon it, and pushed it over 
 and lifted it, until it stood above the grave. 
 
 Then blowing out the candle with one breath, 
 he rushed from the ghastly house; and untying 
 his horse with mad haste, sprang on its back and 
 galloped away with the cold, deathly terror still 
 in his heart. 
 
VI 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 
 
 CRISTOBAL arrived early Sunday morn- 
 ing in Las Animas County. Putting 
 up his horse at an hotel in a small 
 town, he went to mass. Although nobody 
 recognized him, and his City of Refuge seemed 
 therefore fairly safe, yet his first care after 
 mass was to have his long black mustache 
 shaved off, and to buy a new hat and a new 
 suit of what in his eyes looked like city clothes, 
 from an accommodating friend of the barber's, 
 who opened his shop for him on his representa- 
 tion that he was going that morning to Denver. 
 Doubtless both the barber and his friend thought 
 him a horse thief, and after having seen him con- 
 sistently ride away in the direction of the rail- 
 road, would have discreetly sent any inquirers 
 about him off on some wrong trail. 
 
 Cristobal rode no farther than the next town, 
 where he alighted again at an hotel; and, going 
 into the bar, sat morbidly there the rest of the 
 day, thinking what he should do, and thinking 
 of Lola. His sullenness created so much re- 
 mark during the afternoon that he finally judged 
 it more inconspicuous to be sociable. So he 
 began to drink with a miscellaneous crowd of 
 
 52 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 53 
 
 ranchmen and loafers who were there. How- 
 ever, as Cristobal remembered, liquor loosens 
 the tongue; and not wanting to lose control of 
 his, he drank carefully. He never had consid- 
 ered how the carefulest drinking alters the 
 workings of the brain; and as the sudden evening 
 shadows fell, though he could not be called 
 drunk, his mind was full of shapes. One shape 
 was Anunciato in his grave, moving about un- 
 easily till the sand above him became humpy, 
 and the bed where the dead woman lay rocked, 
 and people coming into the silent house looked 
 at one another with wide eyes, saying, "It is 
 strange!" and added under their breath the name 
 of Cristobal. This fume of fancy made Cristo- 
 bal feel cold down his back and arms, and shiver, 
 and also made him choke over his whisky. Un- 
 pleasing as the picture was, he could not erase it 
 from the tablet of his mind; but there in the 
 smoky little bar, where the vile smell of the 
 sooty lamps was beginning to down the vile 
 smell of cheap whisky, and where the atmos- 
 phere was thick with curses and filth, where he 
 knew in his very soul there was no one dead and 
 no silence; he could see as plainly almost as he 
 saw his boot, the edges of sand trickling out 
 untidily from under the bed which he had put 
 there to conceal them, but which now only 
 rocked and rocked, and showed that there was 
 some one underneath it. 
 
54 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 He set down his glass and struck himself with 
 one fist on the head. He knew he was awake; 
 he knew he was not drunk; but nevertheless he 
 knew, when he stopped to think of it, that this 
 thing he saw was all a dream; and yet, might not 
 the fresh sand really show in the daytime? He 
 had covered it so hurriedly in the dim light, and 
 while so frightened, that probably it might. He 
 would go see, at once. Up he jumped, forget- 
 ting that it was now night. 
 
 His companions jumped up, too, swearing 
 noisily, and demanding where he was going; but 
 Cristobal, with an oath on his own part, throw- 
 ing two Mexican dollars through the tobacco 
 smoke to the bartender, told them good-night so 
 definitely and swaggered out with so much Span- 
 ish dignity, that they said they were relieved to 
 have this low-born wretch away, and shouted 
 after him, when the door was closed, directions 
 as to his route. 
 
 Back once more, again through the warm 
 night, over the same road he had traversed the 
 night before, morning indeed dawned and the 
 sun rose at his back before he came to the fatal 
 house. 
 
 Not over-trusting in his changed appearance, 
 he kept a nervous hand on his rein, and the other 
 ready to his revolver, as well as a keen eye about 
 the plain; but as usual there was no sign of life 
 in the Valley; and the house, of a less somber 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 55 
 
 brown in the oblique morning light, was just as 
 still and forbidding as before. He dismounted 
 a little way from it, and led his horse by the 
 bridle, going very slowly, with a sharp ear on 
 the alert. All at once he paused, drawing back 
 a little. As he listened there was a sound from 
 within the house, a mumbling sound, a voice, 
 a voice praying. The dead do not pray, not 
 in the morning at any rate. In an instant Cris- 
 tobal had a foot in the stirrup, ready to mount. 
 Then smiling scornfully, he hesitated again. 
 Neither did the living pray among the dead in 
 the morning in Cristobal's experience, except 
 priests. 
 
 He therefore advanced again; and sure 
 enough, when he stopped to tie his horse, there 
 on the other side of the house stood the little 
 donkey of the Father Maria de Jesus. 
 
 Then Cristobal went boldly enough into the 
 porch. Looking into the room, which the one 
 square of daylight on the floor made bleaker 
 and more dismal than ever, he saw the priest 
 on his knees by the bed, and heard him praying. 
 In a moment or two, however, Father Maria de 
 Jesus, seeming to feel the steady gaze fixed upon 
 him, stopped short in his prayer, turned and 
 rose, confronting the intruder. 
 
 "Who are you?" he said, rather sharply, not 
 recognizing in the light checked suit the rough 
 plainsman of his former acquaintance. 
 
56 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Don't you know me, Father?" asked the 
 other in reply, a tone of satisfaction in his voice. 
 
 Peering keenly at the face, which he could 
 scarcely see as the new-comer stood there" in the 
 doorway with his back to the light, the priest, 
 recognizing the voice, exclaimed "Cristobal!" 
 and dropping his own voice to a sterner key, de- 
 manded: "What have you done with the body of 
 Anunciato?" 
 
 "You have not found it, Father?" asked Cris- 
 tobal, yet more satisfied at the question. 
 
 "Found it!" repeated the Father sternly. 
 "What have you done with it? Tell me!" 
 
 Cristobal pointed. "It is there," he said 
 obediently, "under the bed." 
 
 The priest turned slowly to look. 
 
 "Buried," explained Cristobal less confidently, 
 and hesitated, then went on, as if compelled: "I 
 was afraid some one would come and see 
 it." 
 
 The priest turned again and faced him. At 
 the very look of the little man, who, even now, 
 erect as he was at his full indignant height, was 
 scarcely taller than the other's shoulder, at his 
 very look of indignation the murderer was 
 cowed. He twisted his shoulders uneasily, 
 searching for words. 
 
 "Take off your hat!" commanded the stern, 
 deep voice of the priest. "Show that respect to 
 the dead, at least in my presence," 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 57 
 
 Cristobal obeyed. 
 
 The priest paused, but not with hesitation. 
 Finally he began, with a forced calmness: "Three 
 of us," he said, "saw your unpremeditated mur- 
 der. I absolved you of the sin, believing in your 
 true repentance, such as often comes as suddenly 
 as the crime. The other two swore not to di- 
 vulge it. Did you fear lest God, satisfied as I 
 was of your remorse and of your resolve to lead 
 a good life, would have betrayed you to a mere 
 human punishment which could not have helped 
 your heart nor yet have undone the deed? You 
 did fear it. And so you came stealthily and 
 buried this man to hide him away, where even I 
 could not have found him unless I had met you 
 now. What you have come for now, I do not 
 know. I cannot see what further impious inten- 
 tion may have been in your heart. Perhaps you 
 are driven here by one of those avenging voices 
 from heaven, which drive the unrepentant to 
 and fro on the earth, and make them haunt the 
 scenes of their crimes like madmen. If such a 
 voice has driven you back here now, it is well; for 
 so I have learned where your victim is hidden, 
 and I can give him a Christian burial, as I had 
 intended to do when I came here this morning. 
 
 "Cristobal/' he continued, his own voice itself 
 sounding in the ears of the other like an aveng- 
 ing voice from heaven, "do you know what you 
 have done, or meant to do? Anunciato was a 
 
58 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 good Catholic; he died, I know, suddenly, with 
 the stain of sin on his soul: but he died by your 
 hand; and I do not know which of you would 
 have been the more responsible for his uncon- 
 fessed sins. God is very merciful, and knowing 
 that, I came here, prepared as his humble servant 
 to take my part in showing that mercy, and to 
 bury Anunciato 1 with the same rites in the same 
 consecrated ground with this absolved woman, 
 to whom I gave the last Sacraments;" he mut- 
 tered some words and made the sign of the cross ; 
 Cristobal, standing with his head down, did like- 
 wise. 'Thank God," pursued the priest, "thank 
 God in his goodness to you, a very sinful man, 
 that you found me here. The consequences of 
 your unfaith can now be repaired; and perhaps 
 your sin may be less black than if you had caused 
 the Catholic dead to lie in unholy ground." 
 
 He stopped, and gazed fixedly at Cristobal, 
 who stood nervously moving his fingers. In a 
 kinder voice, he added: "Come, help me now to 
 move the dead." 
 
 Cristobal, with a sigh of relief, raised his head, 
 and hurried briskly to aid the priest. Together 
 they lifted the low bed, and moved it back to 
 where it had before stood. 
 
 "Take your spade," said the priest, "and dig 
 him up." 
 
 With silent docility, Cristobal applied himself 
 to the task, taking out each spadeful, however, 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 59 
 
 with timorous hesitancy. At last he spoke un- 
 quietly over his shoulder: "If any one comes " 
 
 "Be quiet," said Father Maria de Jesus per- 
 emptorily. "Go on. I am ashamed of you;" and 
 directly afterwards, "have I not promised?" 
 
 Cristobal continued, with set, pale face. When 
 his spade struck the body he shuddered; but 
 gathering himself together, he lifted off the rest 
 of the sand in thin layers, until the form of the 
 dead man, lying straight and comfortable, as he 
 had placed him, could plainly be seen under only 
 a light covering of it. 
 
 "Must I take him out?" he said, rising, and 
 rubbing his cheeks with his two palms. 
 
 "Yes," the priest nodded, "I will help you." 
 
 Cristobal took the feet and he the shoulders, 
 and together they lifted out the body. They laid 
 it along beside the shallow open grave. 
 
 Then the priest, thinking, with one hand over 
 his face, hesitated. "I do not know," he said, 
 aloud, but as if to himself, "whether to have you 
 read the responses. Your soul is very black with 
 sin and yet," he decided, "we are all sinful, and 
 God does not forbid us to worship him." 
 
 He started out of the house; and Cristobal, not 
 liking even in the daytime to be left there alone, 
 followed him. Father Maria de Jesus, untying 
 from his donkey's saddle a small leather satchel, 
 took it into the house and opened it there. Tak- 
 ing from it a pair of candlesticks and candles, a 
 
60 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 crucifix, a breviary, all of which he set down care- 
 fully on a bench, he took out finally a bottle of 
 holy-water and a holy-water brush. With these 
 in his hands he started out again, Cristobal, as 
 before, going after him. At a word over his 
 shoulder from the priest, the other turned again 
 into the room and fetched the spade. Following 
 the directions given him, but without a word on 
 his own part, Cristobal marked out on a smooth 
 spot of sand behind the house a square about 
 eight feet; and then leaning on his spade, 
 watched with solemn eyes while the priest per- 
 formed lustrations and recited prayers. This 
 ceremony finished, he was set to work to dig the 
 two graves; and these he made, out there in the 
 blessed hot sunlight, with more alacrity than he 
 had shown over the other. Father Maria de 
 Jesus, after watching him for a while and making 
 one or two suggestions which were straightly ob- 
 served, left him. When Cristobal, his labor fin- 
 ished, returned to the dark house, he found the 
 candles lighted, and the brown form of the priest 
 again on his knees murmuring prayers. Without 
 a word he rose at the other's approach, and when 
 he stooped and put his hands again beneath the 
 dead man's shoulders, Cristobal understanding", 
 again laid hold of the feet, and together they 
 lifted him and laid him alongside the bed, at the 
 end of which the priest had erected his temporary 
 altar 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 6l 
 
 "You can read?" said Father Maria de Jesus, 
 handing his breviary to Cristobal. 
 
 "Yes, Father; but not this. This isn't Spanish, 
 nor English." 
 
 The priest taking the book back from him, 
 said: "Then I will say the responses to you, and 
 you repeat them after me, word by word." 
 
 Cristobal bowed his head. 
 
 So they said the funeral service over the dead ; 
 the priest reciting his portions of it, with the 
 ease of familiarity and the reverence of a full and 
 honest heart the stammering assistant in his 
 light gray checked suit, repeating witlessly as 
 best he could, the Latin words told slowly to 
 him, making the sign of the cross when the priest 
 made it, and kneeling and rising according to the 
 motions the priest made him with his hand. The 
 alternate fervid and halting sentences alone 
 broke the hush in the gloomy room, with its 
 shadowy bare corners, and its piercing ray of 
 sunlight which, coming in through the doorway, 
 made the two candle-flames by contrast pale and 
 ghastly. 
 
 When the time had come, they lifted the 
 bodies, each in its turn and carried them slowly 
 and wearily out to the newly blessed grave-plot. 
 There, in the full expanse of day, there was as lit- 
 tle sound as even in the house. The air was still 
 and thin, but quivering with intensity of heat. 
 As the two ended the simple service, already the 
 
62 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 drops of sweat were thick on their dark faces; 
 and when Cristobal had finished filling- in the 
 graves, he was wet and panting. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus, hurrying back into the 
 house, began putting his altar ornaments into his 
 satchel, saying, "I must hurry back to my 
 people." 
 
 "Lola, Father," began Cristobal, holding his 
 hat in one hand, and looking first down, then up 
 at the priest's face: "How is she?" 
 
 "Well again, Cristobal," he replied. "She is 
 beginning already to be comforted." 
 
 They went together into the porch. 
 
 "You will " The eager black eyes gazed be- 
 seechingly; "you will let her come with me?" 
 
 The priest set down his satchel carefully on the 
 floor before he turned upon him. Frowning 
 sternly, he shook his reproving head. 
 
 "No, Cristobal; no. And do you not under- 
 stand why perfectly? I told you day before yes- 
 terday that you could not enjoy the fruit of your 
 crime, before you had repented of it. And to- 
 day I find you even less repentant than then. 
 No, think of your soul before you think of Lola; 
 it would be hideous now. I will not have you 
 marry her. For the present forget her." 
 
 Speechless under the rebuke until this point, 
 Cristobal shook his head, and with his fervent 
 eyes fixed on the priest, said in a low voice; "No, 
 Father," 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 63 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus looked at him con- 
 templatively, and then said: "Well, I will not 
 have you marry her now. I tell you what to do. 
 Go back into Las Animas, and lead a good life; 
 go to mass every Sunday and holy-day, fast every 
 fast-day, say your prayers regularly and do what- 
 ever works of charity you can. Try, try, to get 
 the sin out of your heart, and to feel sorry. I 
 should not dare to absolve you now; but when 
 you are repentant, confess to a priest, and he will 
 do so. Pray continually for the soul of Anun- 
 ciato; I will say a mass for him; and when you 
 hear of any indulgence to be had, work and pray 
 until you have earned it, and then ask God to 
 apply it to the soul of the man you have mur- 
 dered/' He paused. 
 
 "And Lola, Father " insisted Cristobal: 
 "When I did it for her." 
 
 The priest gave him a final glance, calm and 
 cold with scorn: "Am I here," he said, "to be a 
 marriage-maker? No; to care for souls. Go 
 and do as I bade you." 
 
 He picked up his satchel, untied and mounted 
 his donkey, and rode ambling away, all without 
 another look at Cristobal. 
 
 He, standing there in the porch, gazed for a 
 long time after him, his expression a mingling of 
 reverence and defiance. Finally he sighed, set 
 his mouth firm, and mounting his horse, galloped 
 away eastward towards Las Animas county. 
 
VII 
 
 PASCO AND PAEZ 
 
 ON THE Monday Dolores had recovered 
 from her hysteria. After a breakfast of 
 bacon and potatoes, Panchita, who was 
 the dressmaker of San Rafael, told her that she 
 would be expected to help with the sewing. The 
 two women, one young, dark, and pretty, the 
 other elderly, fat, and contented-looking, each 
 with her blue stint, sat on a bench in the square 
 brown room. Through the open door they 
 could see into the porch and beyond, and could 
 hear the swishing of Pasco's work as village dyer. 
 
 They were hardly well begun, when a shrill 
 voice outside was heard saying "God bless you," 
 to Pasco; and the gaunt straight form of Oesto- 
 cris slid in. 
 
 "God be with you, Panchita," she said, making 
 the sign of the cross before an orange-colored 
 picture of Our Lady of Santa Fe; "and with you, 
 too What is her name?" 
 
 "Dolores. Lola we call her." 
 
 "And you, too, Dolores. I didn't see you at 
 mass yesterday, nor at vespers either." 
 
 "Her sister has just died," Panchita hastened 
 to explain, "and the Father excused her." 
 
 "When any one dies," the withered old woman 
 
 64 
 
PASCO AND PAEZ 65 
 
 began severely to Dolores, "the best place to 
 comfort yourself is in church. The only place, 
 too, where the Lord will show you, if you pray 
 enough show you the person you have lost, 
 dressed in gold and sitting on the right of Our 
 Blessed Lady, playing on a harp. I saw my hus- 
 band like that; but only when I was in the 
 church; and the more candles there -were, the 
 better I saw him through the light." 
 
 Dolores stared at her with wide eyes; but at 
 the end of this speech, the old creature turning 
 to Panchita, said: "I have come to get me a 
 gown." 
 
 Seeing their backs turned, the girl with her 
 sewing, quietly slipped out into the porch. 
 Pasco was sitting on the ground, his shoulders 
 to the wall, his legs wide apart embracing a tub 
 nearly full of blue liquid in which were big bub- 
 bles of bloated cloth. These he stirred round and 
 poked with a stick. There was a curious smooth 
 smell from the tub. 
 
 Before sitting on the bench Dolores tried to 
 make out her own house in the valley below; but 
 search as she might, it was only one continuous 
 yellow reach with heat twinkling up all over it. 
 
 Sitting down, she began to turn a hem, swing- 
 ing one bare foot the while. At last she looked 
 at Pasco. Her eyes met his; but he at once 
 turned away his head and stared into the dis- 
 tance. Dolores smiled. She regarded his blue 
 
66 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 hands and arms, shrunken with the wet, and his 
 calm handsome face. As long as she examined 
 him he kept his eyes turned away; and all the 
 time went on swishing and swashing about in 
 the dye-stuff. 
 
 Finally she said: "Have you ever been down 
 in the Valley?" 
 
 He turned his big straightforward eyes to- 
 ward her and faced her, impassive enough. He 
 nodded in response. 
 
 "To Antonito?" 
 
 Keeping his eyes fixed on her, again he 
 nodded. 
 
 "To Conejos?" 
 
 Another nod. 
 
 "La Jara?" 
 
 Still he nodded, slowly and seriously. 
 
 "Ephraim and Manassa?" 
 
 This time he shook his head. 
 
 "Neither have I," said Dolores: "Ever been 
 out of the Valley?" 
 
 He made the same negative reply. 
 
 "Neither have I," she said again. 
 
 She had laid her sewing on her knee. Now 
 she took it up again, and as she stuck her needle 
 into* her hem, she began to laugh. She laughed 
 right gaily; and when she stopped and looked at 
 Pasco, he had his lips parted in a sympathetic 
 smile that showed all his strong white teeth. At 
 that she laughed again. 
 
PASCO AND PAEZ 67 
 
 When, after sewing quickly a while, she lifted 
 her head once more and looked at Pasco, who 
 was wringing out a thick twist of cloth, he had 
 his eyes still on her. 
 
 "I'm sorry I came to this house to live/' said 
 Dolores, with a little sigh. 
 
 His eyes interrogated, but she wouldn't see 
 their meaning and went on diligently sewing. 
 Ultimately he said, "Why?" 
 
 She replied readily: "I have an idea you dis- 
 like girls." 
 
 Pasco shook his head with vehemence and 
 added: "No, I do like them." 
 
 "Do you like having me here?" 
 
 He gravely nodded. 
 
 Though Dolores gave him an encouraging 
 smile, he only continued regarding her fixedly 
 with his big calm eyes. So with a toss of her 
 head, she looked away and went on with her 
 hem. 
 
 At the end of it, she stood up on her bare feet. 
 Pasco followed her every movement with his 
 eyes, but she paid no more attention to him. 
 Laying her sewing down on the bench, and then 
 stepping tentatively out into the open sunshine, 
 she started off toward the church. She had the 
 swaying, self-reliant, egotistical gait of the 
 graceful Spanish woman. 
 
 Across the road in a field where one of the 
 gaunt black crosses was, she could see a dozen 
 
68 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 dark figures working. In the shady porch of the 
 first house she passed, a naked little girl stood 
 gazing at her. Some one was evidently cooking 
 inside, to judge from the pungent odor of a pine 
 fire. 
 
 At the next house sat a young man, whose 
 black hair fell about his face as he bent over 
 something he seemed to be mending. She halted 
 and stared at him. Under this influence he soon 
 raised his head, and straightening up gave her a 
 fair return of interest. As soon as his eyes caught 
 hers, Dolores glanced away. As she hesitated, a 
 young woman in a red waist who* was in the 
 porch of the house still beyond, caught her at- 
 tention. Dolores at once faced about and walked 
 slowly to the church. 
 
 As she found the door open, she went in. No- 
 body was there. She noticed the bell-rope hang- 
 ing near the altar and the silver candle-sticks 
 standing forth on her white mantilla. Without 
 noticing the sacred pictures, she made an obei- 
 sance before the huge wax Christ on his cross 
 over the altar, made the sign of the cross, and 
 kneeled on the earthen floor. 
 
 The great sunshine pouring in through the 
 wide door, brightened every corner of the chapel. 
 There was a faint smell of stale incense. As she 
 prayed, Dolores watched tfie dust dancing in 
 one straight shaft of light that came through the 
 bell-rope hole and struck the front of the altar. 
 
PASCO AND PAEZ 69 
 
 Before long she was aware of somebody's 
 coming into the church. Out of the tail of her 
 eye, she saw Father Chucho, who, without pay- 
 ing any attention to her, after saluting the altar, 
 stepped into the chancel. His brown robes were 
 pale with white dust. Opening a little satchel 
 which he carried, he began to take things out 
 of it, and to put them on the altar. In a moment 
 she rose from, her knees and went towards him. 
 After setting the crucifix in place, he turned to 
 her. "Ah, Lola," he said cheerily, "I am glad 
 to see you looking so- well. The Blessed Virgin 
 has comforted you already. I have just come 
 up from the Valley, from burying your sister. If 
 I had known I might have taken you with me; 
 but it is just as well. The Lord will hear your 
 prayers here as well as by the grave. May he be 
 merciful to her!" He mused a minute, and then 
 said, smiling: "Everyone seems to be out in the 
 fields working. My sermon has had an effect. 
 Even old Muhammah, my housekeeper, insisted 
 on taking a rake and going across the road there. 
 She said the Lord's harvest must be made. And 
 so it must; so it must. I shall go over there 
 myself soon: but the Lord's altar must be kept 
 clean, too, and if all the women till the fields. 
 By the way, didn't Panchita give you any task? 
 We all labor together, for the glory of God." 
 
 "Yes," replied Dolores, "I did do some sew- 
 ing, but I came up here to pray a little while." 
 
70 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Ah, yes, for your sister, I suppose. God save 
 all Catholic souls " and he made the sign of the 
 cross. 
 
 "No," Dolores said candidly, imitating his ges- 
 ture; "I wasn't praying for her." 
 
 "No? Well, I will say a mass for her tomor- 
 row in return for this beautiful altar cloth you've 
 given us. Indeed, I'll say several masses," he 
 considered, feeling the lace, "for your kindness. 
 But for whom were you praying?" 
 
 "For Pasco," replied Dolores. 
 
 "For Pasco, Lola! Oh, I see; you were asking 
 San Rafael to implore God to choose him, I'm 
 sure. Or perhaps you asked it of Our Lady of 
 Sorrows. She is your Saint, isn't she?" 
 
 "To choose Pasco?" queried the girl. 
 
 "Yes; to put His sacred mark on him and set 
 him apart for the blessed role in our festival. 
 You know in a day or two we are going to ask 
 God to set His sign upon the man He selects." 
 
 Dolores, who had not heard yesterday's ser- 
 mon stared at the priest. 
 
 "I wish with all my heart," mused he, "that 
 He would vouchsafe to send us the sign of the 
 tongue of fire, which He set upon the heads of 
 the twelve at Pentecost. But He has not 
 granted that to us since San Rafael himself was 
 crucified, and I hardly dare to hope so that I 
 won't raise their " then he remembered Dolo- 
 res; "O Lola," he said to the girl, who still had 
 
PASCO AND PAEZ 7 1 
 
 her astonished eyes on him; "I will give you a 
 task to do, too, for the love of Jesus. Panchita 
 can spare you. Take this altar-cloth you have 
 bestowed on San Rafael and go down to the 
 river and wash it. It has got a little dirty, bring- 
 ing it here " he was folding it as he spoke; 
 "Neetasta will show you the pool where the 
 women wash. I saw her as I came in, talking to 
 Paez." 
 
 "Who is Neetasta?" asked Dolores, taking the 
 white roll carefully. 
 
 "Fanita is the name I christened her, but we 
 call her Neetasta; she lives in the house next to 
 mine." 
 
 "Does she wear a red waist?" demanded 
 Dolores. 
 
 "Yes, I believe so," the Father answered, 
 wrinkling his brow. 
 
 Dolores flushed. 
 
 "Who is Paez?" she asked, with a harder ring 
 in her voice. 
 
 "He is the son of old Oestocris. He lives in 
 the next house to Fanita." 
 
 "Is he an Indian?" asked the girl. 
 
 "An Indian?" 
 
 "His mother is." 
 
 "She is a good Catholic, Lola," he said. 
 
 "Pasco can show me where the pool is," said 
 Dolores; and she turned and walked out. 
 
 Though she would not look directly at the 
 
72 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 porch where the very dark young man sat mend- 
 ing something, she could see well enough that 
 the girl in the red waist was standing there, arms 
 akimbo, talking to him. She could even hear 
 the sound of their voices. The talking ceased 
 abruptly when she appeared. Putting her head 
 higher, Dolores swung off in her finest strut, 
 down towards Panchita's. 
 
 She came round the corner of the house so 
 suddenly that Pasco, still sitting in the same at- 
 titude, stirring the blue mess in the tub between 
 his legs, looked up with almost a start. 
 
 "Pasco," gasped the girl, "did you dye that 
 red waist that girl up there wears?" 
 
 Pasco nodded. 
 
 "Well, I want you to make me a yellow one, 
 will you? A whole gown, will you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Pasco. 
 
 "Come and show me the pool where they wash 
 things." 
 
 He got his legs from round the tub and stiffly 
 pulled himself up'. Then he stretched himself as 
 thoroughly and languidly as a cat; yawned, too. 
 Then he took up a wrung-out blue twist that 
 lay beside the tub, and they started. 
 
VIII 
 
 PRIDE OF BIRTH 
 
 THE opportunity for Dolores to slip out of 
 the dress-making 1 room had been the 
 arrival of Oestocris. The old half-breed 
 woman had made some remark about needing a 
 gown; but on being aware that the girl was 
 gone, she muttered something about making her 
 old skirt do. Her sharp ears having caught 
 the fresh tones of Dolores's voice outside, Oesto- 
 cris turned summarily upon Panchita, demand- 
 ing: "Why was that girl sent here to you?" 
 
 Panchita, with a slight gasp, replied: "Father 
 Chucho brought her here and told me to keep 
 her." 
 
 "Why did he choose your house?" asked the 
 other cuttingly. 
 
 "It's bigger than most," said Panchita pla- 
 catingly. 
 
 "It's no bigger than mine." 
 
 "No," admitted the fat woman; adding in a 
 lower tone; "I have my doubts if she's a very 
 good Catholic." 
 
 Oestocris, silenced for a moment, tightened 
 her thin dark lips, nodding significantly. 
 
 "Then she ought to have been sent to me," 
 
 78 
 
74 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 she suddenly declared. "But I know why it 
 was. The Father considered Paez." 
 
 "Paez?" 
 
 "Yes; he's the handsomest boy in San Rafael." 
 
 "I don't know that he is," replied Panchita 
 hotly. 
 
 "He's the most angelic boy in the whole Val- 
 ley," insisted the old woman. 
 
 Though Panchita ventured no more protest, 
 her pale eyes were unwontedly fiery. 
 
 Oestocris, nodding her white head sharply, 
 grunted. 
 
 "That he is," she said, putting her worn hands 
 on her knees to rise. 
 
 "I thought Paez was going to marry Fanita." 
 
 "So I thought, too," admitted Oestocris; "but 
 God's will be done;" she crossed herself and 
 added proudly. "He is going to be the Christ." 
 
 "Paez!" exclaimed Panchita. 
 
 "My son Paez." 
 
 "The cross-bearer! How do you know? Did 
 Father Chucho tell you?" 
 
 "He didn't need to. Our Lady told me." 
 
 While Panchita gazed at her breathless, the 
 gaunt old creature got up, smoothing back her 
 straight white hair with one bony hand; and with 
 a hideous smile at her, went out as noiselessly as 
 she had come in. 
 
 After an instant of astonished quietude, Pan- 
 
PRIDE OF BIRTH 75 
 
 chita waddled after her. But Pasco was alone 
 in the porch. 
 
 "Pasco," panted his mother, looking from his 
 blue hands to his dark head; "you be careful of 
 that girl Lola. I'm afraid she isn't a very good 
 Catholic. But but a cow could see that you 
 are handsomer than that and I know that's not 
 why Father Chucho put her anyway, you be 
 careful. Where is she now?" 
 
 "In the church," said Pasco. 
 
 "Well, that's a good sign. You pray for her," 
 and she went in again without waiting for an 
 answer. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dolores after having seen Paez 
 and Fanita in their respective porches, and hav- 
 ing stared at the one and ignored the other, had, 
 as Pasco said, gone into the church. As soon 
 as she had disappeared, Fanita hurried from the 
 shade of her own porch over to where Paez sat 
 mending his rake. As he raised his head, his 
 straight black locks fell down about his ears 
 and neck. Though he had high cheek bones 
 and an Indian's stern nose, his eyes were singu- 
 larly soft and his mouth girlish. 
 
 "Is that the new girl?" asked Fanita, facing 
 him. 
 
 "I suppose it is." 
 
 "Is she pretty?" 
 
 "You co'uld see as well as I could," he replied; 
 "she wasn't near enough." 
 
76 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Well, I know she isn't," said Fanita decid- 
 edly. 
 
 Paez grunted. 
 
 "Don't grunt. Do you think she is?" 
 
 "I don't know anything about it," he said. 
 
 "What do you think, Paez? You can think," 
 she insisted pettishly. 
 
 "I am sure she isn't as pretty as you," said 
 Paez, looking up and smiling. 
 
 "I don't like her," said the girl, not entirely 
 mollified. 
 
 "You're not jealous, are you?" he asked. 
 
 "Of what? You don't know her." 
 
 "On account of Pasco, I mean. She lives 
 down there." 
 
 "Oh, you funny boy! What do I care about 
 Pasco?" she laughed; and with one hand 
 straightened the ruffle of her red waist. "Pasco 
 will never say a word to her anyway. That's 
 the reason I chose you," she added archly. 
 "You are not dumb." 
 
 "Was that the only reason?" asked Paez ten- 
 derly. 
 
 With a quick glance of sympathy she stretched 
 out her hand. Taking it in his, he squeezed it 
 gently. 
 
 "Don't be jealous," he said. 
 
 Fanita drew her hand away. 
 
 "Of her!" she exclaimed. 
 
 She made a little face, and put her hands de- 
 
PRIDE OF BIRTH 77 
 
 fiantly on her hips. It was at this moment that 
 Dolores came out of the church. Paez saw her 
 at once. His sweetheart, understanding his ex- 
 pression, glanced contemptuously over her shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Well, this is finished," Paez said, getting up 
 and pushing back his long hair. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Fanita. 
 
 "Out into the fields," he pointed across the 
 road. 
 
 The girl returned to her house; and Paez, 
 his rake over his shoulder, watched till she dis- 
 appeared inside; then changing his course, he 
 followed down the steep incline in the direction 
 Dolores had gone. 
 
 In that part of the settlement and near the 
 river there was one field hemmed in by some low 
 water-loving trees. Thither he followed a little 
 behind Dolores and Pasco. When he entered 
 the empty field, instead of falling to work, he 
 watched the two, others from behind the willow 
 screen. He saw Dolores, after kneeling beside 
 the washing-stone, roll up her sleeves and plunge 
 her arms into the river, and he saw Pasco go 
 back some distance and begin unrolling his dyed 
 goods and spreading them on the sand to dry. 
 Then Paez started towards the washing pool. 
 When she heard him coming Dolores turned her 
 head and smiled at him over her shoulder. Be- 
 fore she spoke, she glanced round over her other 
 
78 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 shoulder to see how far away Pasco was from 
 them. He seemed to be engrossed in his work. 
 So she sat back on her heels, letting the heap of 
 wet lace lie on the flat stone, and said: "Did you 
 ever see me when you were down in the plain?" 
 
 "No, I never did," Paez, leaning on his rake, 
 with his eyes fixed on her, shook his head. 
 
 "Sit down/' said Dolores, patting the grass 
 beside her with her wet hand. "It's nice and 
 shady here, and you ought to> rest before you 
 work. It's so hot, too. Besides we ought to 
 get acquainted." 
 
 Paez, with an acquiescent smile, laid down 
 the rake and sat beside her. 
 
 The girl, leaning forward once more, took the 
 roll of lace, and having untwisted it, dipped it 
 again into the running water, letting her brown 
 arms sink in up to the elbows. 
 
 "How do you know you never saw me?" she 
 pursued airily, as she trailed the flimsy white- 
 ness from side to side through the ripples. "You 
 might have forgotten." 
 
 "No, I shouldn't," he replied stoutly; "I should 
 have always remembered you." 
 
 "Why?" she wished to know. 
 
 "Why, because you are so pretty, I suppose." 
 
 She gave a side glance, meant for him to 
 catch. "Do you think I am so very pretty?" 
 She drew out the last word as if hesitating. "As 
 
PRIDE OF BIRTH 79 
 
 pretty as " she stopped. "I know you don't, 
 though." 
 "Yes, I do, too/' he said; "prettier." 
 
 "Who, then?" Dolores demanded, straighten- 
 ing up again and turning on him. 
 
 "You know who'." She shook her head smil- 
 ing. "Yes, you do. Well, Fanita." 
 
 The girl gave him a piercing look, full of 
 meaning; and then said artlessly: "You are hei; 
 lover, aren't yo<u? You oughn't to say such 
 things. Suppose I should tell her." 
 
 Paez looked at her uncomfortably. 
 
 "Well, never mind. I won't. But I know 
 you are. Pasco told me so." 
 
 She leaned over to her task, and for some min- 
 utes the splashing she made was the only sound. 
 At last, sitting up again, she raised her eyebrows 
 at him knowingly, and with her teeth on her 
 lower lip smiled at him in mock reproval, shak- 
 ing her head. But she said nothing. As she 
 carefully picked apart the soaked folds of the 
 lace, and laid it out smoothly on the stone, the 
 monotonous gurgle of the water was the only 
 break in the morning stillness. The sunlight 
 sifted in upon them through the trees. 
 
 Finally Paez said in a recriminatory tone: 
 "Didn't you have any lovers down there?" 
 
 Dolores laughed. "Yes, I had two." 
 
 "Where are they now?" 
 
 "One of them killed the other; and now he's 
 
THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 over in Las Animas county waiting for me to 
 
 come." 
 
 "Are you going?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied Dolores carelessly. 
 "I might. You know I ought to marry some one 
 with Spanish blood the most Spanish I can 
 get." 
 
 "My father was Mexican," said Paez feebly. 
 
 "Castilian, I mean," she explained; "my grand- 
 father was Castilian. He married a Mexican 
 woman. But his father was a prince." 
 
 Paez stared at her silently. 
 
 "Yes. He was brother of the King of Spain, 
 and he was my great-grandfather." 
 
 Paez wonderingly grunted. 
 
 "Yes," she went on, settling back comfortably 
 on her heels, and looking past Paez; "and he 
 lived in Spain, somewhere, where the King lives. 
 That was a long while ago, when they had a 
 different King from the one now, I suppose, or 
 else he must be terribly old. My grandfather 
 was terribly old, and he's dead. He lived in a 
 palace, the prince did. We used to have a silver 
 medal he gave my grandfather's mother with 
 the King's head on it. He never came away 
 from Spain. But she came to Mexico with her 
 baby. I guess she died there. She used to be 
 a washerwoman at first," Dolores rambled on; 
 "but I don't know whether she would have 
 wanted to be one after she lived in a palace. I 
 
PRIDE OF BIRTH 81 
 
 believe it was the King himself who sent her to 
 Mexico." The girl paused. "So you see," she 
 added, "I ought to marry some one just as Span- 
 ish as I can find." 
 
 After a moment, as she began carefully to take 
 up the lace from the rock, Paez said: "Well, I 
 hope you won't go to Las Animas, anyway." 
 
 "Do you want me to stay here?" she asked 
 naively, holding a hand to him to help her up 
 from her knees. 
 
 "Yes," said Paez fervently, "I do." 
 
 "Very much?" and she looked at him from 
 under her brows. 
 
 "Yes, very much." 
 
 "Well, I'll see how I like it here," she an- 
 swered; and turning towards Pasco, who was still 
 a little distance away, sitting now on the grass 
 among his strips of blue stretched there to dry, 
 and who had his calm eyes fixed upon them, "I 
 must go spread this in the sun. You go and 
 work now," and she gave him a sudden push, 
 which had almost upset him into the stream. 
 At that she laughed, as she strutted away. 
 
IX 
 
 A SIGN IN THE SKY 
 
 ATER vespers, on the Friday Heaven's 
 choice of him who should become the 
 Christ was to be made, the whole of San 
 Rafael, including Dolores, was gathered in high 
 time at the church door; and even after Father 
 Maria de Jesus had passed in through the yield- 
 ing crowd, they lingered, while he might robe, 
 wondering how the choice was to be indicated. 
 
 "I believe he is going to be transfigured," de- 
 clared Oestocris. 
 
 Already she had declared that several times, 
 each time looking pointedly at her son Paez, 
 with an expression in her eyes as if she already 
 saw his face shine as the sun and his raiment 
 white as the light. 
 
 "No-," objected Crist oke unsympathetically, 
 "there won't be any transfiguration today. If 
 there is any, it will come later, after the fast has 
 commenced. I don't feel as if anything of that 
 kind was going to happen today." 
 
 "But who do you think it will be, Cristoke?" 
 asked one dark, gaping youth. 
 
 "Who do you think it will be?" asked Pan- 
 chita at the same time. 
 
 S3 
 
A SIGN IN THE SKY 83 
 
 They all spoke subduedly, as people who were 
 about to be put to a test. 
 
 "I trust that Our Lady of Continual Blessing 
 will grant my prayers. I have said five hun- 
 dred rosaries to her. And I am old enough to 
 die," answered Cristoke solemnly. 
 
 "But why would he die?" asked Dolores of 
 the woman next her. "What do you do to the 
 one that is chosen?" 
 
 She had not heard the sermon; and down in 
 the Valley only rumors of the cross-bearers' fes- 
 tival had reached her. But as she asked, they 
 began to push into the church, and she had no 
 answer. 
 
 Cristoke's was the one white head among the 
 many dark, shiny polls of the men on the right. 
 Underneath his seat on the back bench (where 
 he saw everyone, and everyone would have to 
 turn to see him), his yellow dog lay on the dirt 
 floor. When there was a pause he could be 
 heard, now beating with his tail on the ground, 
 now rhythmically snoring. 
 
 The congregation sang the responses in Latin. 
 Only one or two could read, but the priest had 
 taught them by heart. They were so well prac- 
 ticed in the beautiful monotony of plain chant, 
 that their strong voices, blending harmoniously, 
 holding well the long notes, rose and fell in 
 unison. The litanies in Spanish everyone knew. 
 This afternoon they said one after another of 
 
84 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 them, until there was no one there who' didn't 
 feel so heartily the appeals to San Rafael, to all 
 the Saints, to- Our Lady of Santa Fe, and Our 
 Lady of Perpetual Succor, to the Blessed Spirit, 
 and to Christ Himself, that his feelings were not 
 shining out from his black eyes, at the last note, 
 when Father Maria de Jesus turned with dignity 
 towards the altar. Kneeling on the step he 
 reached out his arms and rested his hands on 
 the altar's edge as he prayed. The Penitentes 
 were all on their knees; every eye was fixed on 
 the white-robed figure. When they saw, after 
 some space of silence, a slight movement of his 
 cope, they made the sign of the cross. Then 
 most of them took their rosaries; and the 
 women sinking back on their heels, leaned 
 against the benches. Everyone said his beads, 
 while the Father in his clear, deep voice intoned 
 the prayers. 
 
 The little acolyte, whose brown feet peeped 
 from under his mussed scarlet cassock, standing 
 on the Gospel side, with both hands solemnly 
 and continuously swung back and forth a brass 
 censer on three brass chains. Each time the 
 censer swung downward the smoke slipped out 
 in a gulp, till little by little, there gathered a 
 thin gray cloud, through which the twinkling 
 rows of candles and the wax Christ above them 
 showed dimmer and dimmer; while the heavy 
 
A SIGN IN THE SKY 85 
 
 rich odor searched into every corner of the little 
 church. 
 
 In words of entreaty, but with a note in his 
 strong voice of the consciousness of right-doing, 
 the priest prayed as volubly as if he were not 
 extemporizing. "O Lord," he began, "we en- 
 treat Thee to pour out the fruitful blessing of 
 Heaven upon the pious enterprise about to be 
 begun by a few of us, Thy children, to the honor 
 of Thy good Saint the Archangel San Rafael, 
 and in memory of the most sacred Passion of 
 Thy Son our Lord. We, O Father, as followers 
 of Christ are anxious, for the glory of the Holy 
 Catholic Church and for the everlasting love of 
 God and of His Immaculate Mother, to follow 
 Him to eternal bliss before Thy throne, through 
 the same path that He in His last days taught 
 men to tread. 
 
 "We beseech thee, O Holy San Rafael, Arch- 
 angel thrice blessed, to send us down a sign 
 which shall designate who among us is worthiest 
 in the sight of God, of that supreme and mystic 
 honor of receiving the sacred Stigmata, emblem 
 of the ever-sacred Passion. 
 
 "Who among us," he continued, "most de- 
 serves the marks in his soles and in his palms, the 
 wound on his breast, the crojwn of thorns, and 
 the blissful agony and bloody sweat? Tell us, 
 we beseech thee, O Patron Father!" 
 
 After a moment the kneeling Penitentes mur- 
 
86 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 mured in chorus, "Tell us, we beseech thee, O 
 Patron Father!' 1 
 
 Several of them looked round where old Cris- 
 toke kneeled. His forehead was wet with beads 
 of excitement, his old eyes, fiery agam, were 
 fixed above the head of the white figure in the 
 incense smoke. 
 
 "O Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, we conjure 
 thee, for thy Son's sake, to send us a sign of 
 the Heavenly will." 
 
 And all the Penitentes responded: 
 
 "We beseech thee, O Holy Mother." 
 
 "O Little Infant Jesus," the pleading voice 
 went on, "tell us, we beseech Thee, who among 
 us is worthy." 
 
 And as he paused, the Penitentes burst out all 
 together in the heartfelt response: 
 
 "We beseech Thee, O Little Infant Jesus." 
 
 "As Thou sentest down Thy spirit in tongues 
 of fire upon the Twelve, to be a sign to all men, 
 so do we beg Thee to- vouchsafe us a sign to-day, 
 O Eternal Father." 
 
 At the end of this cry to God the Father the 
 pleading voice stopped as if exhausted, and the 
 Penitentes murmured "Amen!" 
 
 The church was full of the incense smoke. 
 All that could be seen of the two figures in the 
 chancel was two- blurs, one red, one white. The 
 white one remained immovable in front of the 
 vaguely twinkling candles of the altar. 
 
A SIGN IN THE SKY 87 
 
 For some time there was no sound. The dark 
 figures in the gray smoke kneeled as immovable 
 as the priest. The heavy smell of the incense was 
 so disseminated as to be no longer noticeable. 
 The only movement that could be felt in the 
 silence was the minute click of prayer-beads. 
 Then the breathing of so many tense figures be- 
 gan to be heard. One of the benches creaked. 
 And for the moment after, the silence seemed 
 more intense than ever. But there was no sound 
 that could be thought supernatural. A gentle 
 purring noise succeeded very monotonous, and 
 so gradual and natural that it might be the mere 
 throbbing of the silence. 
 
 Of a sudden there came a nervous little 
 scratching and a quick bark. 
 
 There was a general start among the congre- 
 gation. The barking ceased. Some one was evi- 
 dently choking the dog. This, however, was 
 not Cristoke, its master, for at this moment he 
 began praying aloud. 
 
 This second disturbance was stopped as sud- 
 denly as it had arisen by the voice of Father 
 Maria de Jesus: "Look, look! God is good 
 to us!" 
 
 Seeing him through the mist of incense, stand- 
 ing on the chancel edge, facing them, his arms 
 stretched out toward the door behind them, they 
 all turned. There was a general scuffling to feet 
 and murmurs of surprise. 
 
88 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 It was raining. The purring sound could 
 now be plainly heard, both on the roof above 
 and on the ground outside. There was a cooler 
 feeling in the air and through the doorway the 
 rain could be seen falling steadily a fresher, 
 moister gray than the cloying atmosphere of 
 the church. 
 
 "God is pleased with our efforts," declared the 
 priest; "since we have begun the preparation 
 for our sacrifice by cultivating our fields, he 
 sends us rain to show his pleasure as well as to 
 aid us." 
 
 They all stood gazing into the rain; but there 
 was no expression of responsive feeling. Clearly 
 this sign was not the sign that had been asked. 
 
 The priest himself, standing quite still, looked 
 over the heads of his people, his lips moving in 
 prayer. As the rain lightened and the smoke 
 inside began to* settle, he could distinguish far 
 away in the east the shapes of the Sangre de 
 Cristo mountains- a long waving line on the 
 horizon, rising at one end to the superb mass of 
 Blanca. Through the last scattering drops, the 
 oblique sunshine, purplish and misty, could be 
 seen far down the Valley. The violet haze of 
 evening was settling over the lowlands. Above 
 the mountains, against the coolest blue sky seen 
 for weeks there were clouds. As he looked, 
 mountains and clouds alike began to be pink 
 with the reflection of the setting sun. The pink 
 
A SIGN IN THE SKY 89 
 
 \ 
 
 growing rosy, flushed up into the sky; deeper 
 
 and richer it warmed until finally it blazed like 
 red fire on the crest of the mountains. 
 
 "There, Penitentes!" cried the priest, "the 
 Lord has sent us another token. There is the 
 Sangre de Cristo, the very blood of Christ spilt 
 for our sins." 
 
 He made a sign to the scarlet acolyte, who 
 caught hold of the rope hanging near, and in 
 a moment the church bell was clanging above 
 their heads. 
 
DOLORES WAITS 
 
 EVEN in the rainy season it is necessary to 
 irrigate the San Luis Valley; and as no 
 one was yet quite sure whether the rainy 
 season had begun or whether the afternoon's 
 shower had been an isolated phenomenon, the 
 work begun on the disused ditches was to be 
 prosecuted. 
 
 In any case, though no< one doubted that the 
 rainfall indicated the heavenly approval of their 
 labors, yet it was not the response so anxiously 
 expected. Father .Chucho could give no satis- 
 factory answer as to what must next be done. 
 He was not decided himself; and at all events 
 a few days' waiting would give opportunity for 
 any divine message that might be individually 
 vouchsafed. They need not so soon fall back 
 on a choice by ordinary human means. 
 
 The afternoon's meeting was the inevitable 
 topic of the evening's conversation. A company 
 of a dozen or so was gathered in the house of 
 Oestocris to discuss it under the leadership of 
 that holy woman. As they sat solemnly confabu- 
 lating in the dark, it was easy for Paez to slip 
 out unnoticed, and taking up his spade, to set 
 forth under the moonlight towards the river. 
 
 The nearly full moon swam high in a cloud- 
 
 90 
 
DOLORES WAITS 91 
 
 less black heaven. So it was fairly light. Paez 
 paused opposite the open door of Panchita's 
 house. By the light inside he could catch sight 
 of one or two people. He strained his eyes for 
 some time before a dark form coming out into 
 the night, approached him. 
 
 "Is that you, Lola?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes/' answered Dolores. 
 
 "How did you know I was here?" 
 
 "I saw you. Panchita is asleep and Pasco 
 didn't say anything. So I came out to see you. 
 Where are you going?" 
 
 "Down by the river." 
 
 "I will come, too," said Dolores, looking up 
 into his face. 
 
 Though Pasco may not have said anything, 
 yet as they started off through the large, still 
 night, they saw him come out and, shading his 
 eyes with his hand, look around. When he saw 
 them, he stood gazing at them a moment or two, 
 then turned and went in again. 
 
 "I don't care," said Dolores, with a little gur- 
 gle of laughter; "I like you better." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" she asked, when 
 they were down under the stunted trees, where 
 they could feel grass beneath their bare feet and 
 hear the little river's murmur. 
 
 "I came out to work on the ditch," Paez said 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Well, sit down and rest awhile," she coaxed. 
 
92 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "There's an awfully good place here, where you 
 can reach down and dabble your hands in the 
 water. See!" and she sat and made room for 
 him beside her. 
 
 "Yes, I know this place," he answered, throw- 
 ing- himself down on the grass; "how did you 
 find it?" 
 
 "Oh, I discovered it myself." 
 
 In the moonlight that filtered in between the 
 trees he could make out her face just enough to 
 see her smile. He lay with his head propped on 
 his hands, staring up at her. 
 
 Dolores distractedly plucked up three or four 
 little bunches of grass, and threw them at him. 
 He shook his head to get the grass off his face. 
 
 "Don't go away, will you?" he said to her in 
 a low voice. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know yet whether I shall or not," 
 she answered shrilly, with a wilful toss of her 
 head; "I don't like it so very much here, that I 
 should stay forever." 
 
 "You don't like it?" repeated Paez sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 "No, I don't; why should I? Down there I 
 always had some one who was fond of me, and 
 here well, Pasco is as< as wooden as a statue 
 in a church and " 
 
 "I am fond of you, Lola!" he said fervidly. 
 
 "Ho!" laughed Lola; "you've got that girl 
 with the Indian name. You're always hanging 
 around her. I don't like her, not a bit," 
 
DOLORES WAITS 93 
 
 "No, I'm not, Lola," he insisted; "you haven't 
 been here very long, and I I liked her pretty 
 well before you came. But I don't hang around 
 her now any more than I can help." 
 
 "That's the trouble with you," she went on, 
 bitterly reproachful; "you're so helpless; you're 
 afraid of your mother; you're afraid of Fanita; 
 you're, afraid of everything. I can see that." 
 
 "No, no," he protested, "I'm not; I'm not 
 afraid of Fanita." 
 
 Dolores was silent for a time. Again plucking 
 up handfuls of grass, this time by the roots, she 
 flung them now into the water, angrily, and 
 stared out with fixed eyes upon the ripples float- 
 ing along one after another in the moonlight. 
 Finally she turned again to the patient Paez, and 
 asked in her natural voice, caressingly: "Do you 
 care more for me than you do for her?" 
 
 "Yes," said Paez, scarcely above a breath. 
 
 "If you did," mused the girl aloud, "and if she 
 wasn't here, there might be some good of my 
 staying. Though I don't see what difference it 
 makes if she is here, if you like me better." 
 
 "I do," he said again. 
 
 "I'm not so sure," said Dolores, with a tinge 
 of cynicism; "and besides, suppose they should 
 choose you for the Christ." 
 
 Paez at first made no reply. 
 
 "Hm?" Dolores insisted on an answer. 
 
94 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I don't think they will," said Paez; "there 
 are plenty of others." 
 
 "Yes; there's Pasco. He'd make a lovely one," 
 she laughed mockingly. 
 
 Paez laughed too, but as if merely because 
 she was laughing. 
 
 "You will stay, Lola?" he said again. 
 
 She looked where she could see his eyes fixed 
 on her, the whites shining in the stray moon- 
 beams. 
 
 "They used to be so good to me down there." 
 
 "I will be good to you, Lola." 
 
 "I had two lovers down there," she argued 
 reminiscently. 
 
 "Why do you want two, Lola?" he said. 
 "One's enough; you can only marry one." 
 
 "If I stay, you would have two," she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "No, Lola," he persisted with fervor; "don't 
 say that. Only you." 
 
 "Well," she considered seriously, "I know if 
 I go, she will get you, unless unless you are the 
 Christ." 
 
 "Then you won't go," he sat up and took her 
 hand in one of his. 
 
 "No, I won't," she said, in a voice of deter- 
 mination. 
 
 He squeezed her hand with the warmth of feel- 
 ing; but her return of the pressure spoke, though 
 not to him, more of the strength of fixed de- 
 cision. 
 
XI 
 
 HE COMES AND GOES 
 
 IT WAS this very same night that Cristobal 
 came riding along in the moonlight towards 
 San Rafael. He wore his new light checked 
 suit, which made him a rather conspicuous ob- 
 ject; and as he particularly wished not to be gen- 
 erally seen, he dismounted where the plain begins 
 to rise toward the Penitente village, and going 
 off the road into the little clump of woods by the 
 river, he tied his horse to a tree there. A few 
 minutes earlier he might have heard the voices 
 of Dolores and Paez; but by this time they had 
 gone up again to the settlement. 
 
 Slowly and cautiously he made his way up the 
 hill, keeping a keen lookout, and stopping as 
 soon as he came near to the first light, which was 
 in the house of Panchita. He could not see 
 Dolores sitting alone there in the dark of the 
 porch. While he hesitated as to what his next 
 move should be, he saw the first living being 
 that had yet been visible, in the quiet place. It 
 was a woman moving rather stealthily across the 
 open; and taking the chance that some resem- 
 blance in height and gait afforded him, he went 
 a step or two nearer, and with his hands to his 
 mouth trumpetwise, called gently, "Lola!" 
 
 95 
 
96 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 The figure abruptly halted. 
 
 "Lola!" he called again in the same tone. 
 Though she had started to move on again, she 
 now apparently changed her mind, and turned 
 towards him. 
 
 He waited, withdrawing indeed a little farther 
 into the shadow. As she came to him, he again 
 exclaimed, "Lola," and then realizing his mis- 
 take, said, "Oh, you are not Lola," at the same 
 instant that Fanita peering at him asked: "Who 
 are you?" 
 
 "I am Cristobal," he said. "Is Lola here? I 
 want to speak to her." 
 
 "Lola?" she repeated. She was now close to 
 him. 
 
 "Yes," he insisted in low tones; "Dolores. Isn't 
 she here? Father Chucho brought her up here." 
 
 "She is here," answered the girl in a hard sharp 
 voice; and then suddenly changing her tone, re- 
 peated in her suavest way, "Yes, she is here." 
 
 Neither of them, where they stood, could see, 
 in the porch of Panchita's house Dolores lean- 
 ing against a post, stretching her head toward 
 them in the effort to hear what they were saying. 
 
 "Listen," said the man impressively; "will you 
 tell her I am here? Cristobal; and promise not to 
 tell any one else. I thought you were she." 
 
 Fanita looked at him. 
 
 "Who are you?" she demanded again. 
 
 "Cristobal," he insisted; "I am her lover. I 
 
HE COMES AND GOES 97 
 
 am come to take her away. Father Chucho 
 would not let me have her, and so I don't want 
 him to know. But you will help me, won't you?" 
 
 He laid a supplicating hand upon her arm. 
 
 "You won't tell any one. You are young 
 yourself. You have a lover probably yourself. 
 You will help us." 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, "I will fetch her. But 
 look, first " she cast a nervous glance over her 
 shoulder, and then went on: "Let me tell you. 
 Are you sure she will go?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," and she could see his teeth, white 
 in the moonlight, as he smiled in assurance. "I 
 am her lover. She will come. Father Chucho 
 would not let her before. That is why." 
 
 "Yes," said the girl; "but" and she lowered 
 her voice almost to a whisper, and in her turn 
 put her hand on his arm, "she has another lover 
 here." 
 
 She could feel him start at this intelligence. 
 Looking eagerly into his set face for he knew 
 he must be quiet there she sighed, nodding her 
 head in asseveration. "Yes," she repeated; "and 
 she might want to stay and marry him." 
 
 "No, no," he protested; "she will marry me. 
 Lola! Anunciato is dead; and she promised." 
 
 In a moment the girl burst forth again, speak- 
 ing with earnestness that betrayed her utmost 
 feeling: "Take her away. Make her go with 
 you." 
 
98 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Ah," said Cristobal in a long exclamation of 
 comprehension, "he is your lover." 
 
 Fanita looked down and said nothing. 
 
 "I will make her go," he said with an energy 
 meant more to reassure himself than her. "Go 
 find her. Tell her I am here." 
 
 "She shall not have him," cried the girl, rais- 
 ing her voice, with the vehemence of her passion. 
 
 "Sh h," warned Cristobal, glancing behind 
 her. 
 
 She dropped her voice again, declaring, "I will 
 have him crucified sooner." 
 
 Even in the midst of his own agitation the 
 phrase struck Cristobal. He looked question- 
 ingly at her; and presently nodding, remarked: 
 "Oh, yes. You are the Penitentes. And you 
 do it? You will do it this fall again?" 
 
 "I will sooner!" repeated Fanita, taking the 
 question to herself. "It is time almost to choose 
 the Christ." 
 
 "Go, go," Cristobal hurriedly exclaimed; 
 "somebody might see me. I will take her away. 
 You will not need to " 
 
 The girl with a stately turn, started off in 
 silence towards the house of Panchita. Follow- 
 ing her with his eyes he saw another girl come 
 out of the porch. 
 
 Dolores, on her part, though she had not been 
 positive that she recognized her old lover in this 
 light-suited person, and was not near enough to 
 
HE COMES AND GOES 99 
 
 hear even the sound of his voice, had yet watched 
 him closely during his conversation with Fanita; 
 and when at the end she saw this girl, who had 
 never yet spoken to her, turn and come towards 
 the house, Dolores slipped through the shadow 
 and suddenly appeared, as if she had just come 
 from inside. She left the porch and went toward 
 Fanita, who* coming straight to her said, con- 
 strainedly: "He wants to see, you. Go over 
 there." 
 
 She waved her arm towards the motionless 
 gray figure. 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Dolores in a cold, careless 
 manner. 
 
 "He has come to take you away. It is Cris- 
 tobal." 
 
 Dolores looked at her closely, trying to read 
 her face in the wan light. Then with a sneer, 
 "Aren't you glad?" she said icily, and strutted 
 away. 
 
 "Who are you? Cristobal!" she called softly 
 but indifferently, as she approached. When a 
 yard or two from him, she stopped short, set her 
 hands on her hips, and laid back her head in a 
 laugh. "Well, where did you get those clothes?" 
 she demanded, ceasing to laugh as suddenly as 
 she had begun. "I never should have known 
 you. And your mustache gone, too! Ugh! You 
 looked horrid without it." 
 
 He slid a step or two nearer, and in low tones 
 
100 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 into her ear began: "It was all only for you, 
 everything ' When she interrupted by turn- 
 ing abruptly from him. 
 
 He ended his sentence in a half- swallowed 
 Spanish oath. 
 
 Standing with her back to Cristobal, "Look 
 here, you girl; whatever your name is," Dolores 
 called to Fanita, who was plainly to be seen 
 hovering about not far away. "You go home. 
 Go away and don't be listening to us." 
 
 She laughed as she saw how swiftly the dark 
 figure turned and hurried away towards the 
 houses. Giving her attention once more to Cris- 
 tobal, she coolly demanded: "What was she tell- 
 ing you about me?" 
 
 He was not ready with an answer. 
 
 "Oh, I know she was," the girl said. "What 
 else could you have been talking so long about? 
 Unless you were making love to her " 
 
 "Lola!" he exclaimed with reproach. "You 
 know I came here only for you, only because I 
 love you. That is why I put on these clothes 
 and shaved my face to look like a woman, all for 
 you, for a disguise so I could stay around near 
 here safely, and be able to come up here and get 
 you again. And now I've come." 
 
 Dolores smothered a yawn; she made no 
 answer. 
 
 "I've come all the way over from Janoso, over 
 by Stamford. I've been living over there. But 
 
HE COMES AND GOES IOI 
 
 I can't stop thinking- of you, Lola; so I have 
 come to get you. It is dangerous, and I have 
 to come at night. You will come with me, won't 
 you?" 
 
 As she stood there calmly with her arms 
 folded, she fell to patting her elbows with her 
 hands in the manner of one who is bored; and 
 looked around in the air aimlessly. 
 
 "Lola, I shot him for your sake. That is why 
 all the priests refuse to forgive me, and say I 
 will go to hell, because I am unrepentant, be- 
 cause I did it for you. That is why I ride around 
 here in the Valley in danger of my life; for you." 
 
 He paused: "Lola!" desperately; "you prom- 
 ised!" 
 
 Yet she made no answer. 
 
 He put his hand on her shoulder and shook 
 her gently, though less gently than he thought. 
 She squirmed away from him. 
 
 "Lola," he said, "what is the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Dolores. 
 
 "You don't care for me now any more?" 
 
 "Not when you're cross." 
 
 "No, Lola, I'm not cross," he said coaxingly, 
 "I won't be cross. I love you too much. I was 
 always good to you, wasn't I? Come away from 
 these people that crucify. It is no good place 
 for you. Won't you?" 
 
 Again a pause, and again he said: "You prom- 
 ised." 
 
102 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I don't remember any promise," she said 
 hurriedly and decisively; "I only remember I 
 did say I would never marry a murderer." 
 
 He fell back from her a step, and said, with 
 his voice trembling-, "You have a lover here!" 
 
 "She told you that!" said the girl simply, with 
 a shrug. 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 "How can I help who is my lover?" she de- 
 manded testily. 
 
 "You can; you " 
 
 "Do you own me?" she went on, interrupting 
 him angrily. "Suppose I have a lover here; does 
 it hurt you? I had two before, didn't I? I can't 
 help it how many I have; and it seems to worry 
 you and that girl much more than it does me." 
 She laughed mockingly. 
 
 Cristobal, still controlling himself, still im- 
 ploring, asked: "Are you going to marry him, 
 Lola?" 
 
 "I won't marry him unless I want to," she 
 declared. "But I won't let -him be crucified, 
 either." 
 
 "Then come with me and we won't let him 
 be crucified." 
 
 "Ho! How can you help it?" she scoffed. 
 
 "I can! I can!" he insisted earnestly. "I know 
 how I can." 
 
 "And then he would marry her," considered 
 Dolores. "Ah, I hate her!" 
 
HE COMES AND GOES 103 
 
 "Lola, come; you love him more than me?" 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 "Lola!" 
 
 "Oh, go away!" she cried impatiently, "I am 
 not going with you; and I'll marry who* I please. 
 If you must know, I do like him better. Now, 
 let me alone." 
 
 She turned from him on her heel and started 
 away. With an impulse of forlorn hope he sprang 
 after her, seizing one of her arms. Dolores thus 
 arrested, startled, screamed, though not very 
 loud. 
 
 "No, no, Lola!" he breathed over her shoul- 
 der; "I won't hurt you; but come. No one 
 loves you like me." 
 
 "Unless you want Father Chucho to see you," 
 Dolores warned him in a low tone all on one 
 note, "you had better go ; I see him coming." 
 
 "I don't mind Father Chucho," he declared, 
 pulling her backwards with him, however; "but 
 you must come." 
 
 "No, I will not," she said, low but violently; 
 and she struggled. 
 
 He continued pulling her backwards; and all 
 at once she called: "Father! Father Chucho!" 
 
 Raising his eyes suddenly, Cristobal could see 
 that a little figure in the moonlight some way off 
 
104 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 had halted. He put a hand over her mouth, as 
 she called again. 
 
 This time the figure began to come towards 
 them, running. 
 
 Cristobal, after making an ineffectual attempt 
 to lift the resisting girl in his arms, let go of her; 
 and as she sprang away clear of him, he turned 
 and started down the hill. Father Maria de 
 Jesus, who since he had seen the light suit be- 
 fore, at once, recognized it, called after him his 
 name, "Cristobal," in tones so peremptory that 
 Cristobal, despite himself, halted a moment. 
 
 "I am not surprised," cried the priest, "that 
 you dare not look me in the face." 
 
 Whereupon the other deliberately turned back 
 and looked him in the face. 
 
 The Father continued: "How can I make you 
 ashamed of yourself? Again and again you do 
 exactly what I have told you not to do." 
 
 Cristobal had been standing there rather irres- 
 olutely, glancing in crestfallen wise from Dolores 
 to the priest. Of a sudden his anger burst forth, 
 and he answered ferociously: "What business 
 have you, anyway, telling me what to do and not 
 to do? You are not my priest. I should have 
 a much better priest than a little crucifier like 
 you." 
 
 Father Chucho's righteous wrath also blazed 
 up. "Go away from my village," he commanded, 
 pointing out over the plain below; "and never 
 
HE COMES AND GOES 105 
 
 come back. I am tired of you. I have tried to 
 help you " 
 
 "I do what I choose," blurted Cristobal; "I 
 don't leave for you; but because I want to." 
 
 "Leave, for whatever reason," repeated the 
 priest firmly. 
 
 Dolores watched each in turn as he spoke, her 
 eyes glowing with admiration. 
 
 "Don't be too* free and easy with your village," 
 cried Cristobal back at him, as he went slowly 
 down towards the river. "Decent people are 
 ashamed of you, too; crucifiers!" 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus made no answer to 
 this; but stood yet peering down into the wan 
 moonlight, in whose thin obscurity the light 
 form of the retiring intruder vanished as if 
 melted away. 
 
 A voice came back again, from nearer than 
 seemed possible considering the speaker could 
 not be seen. It cried out in the night: "-Go on, 
 go on with your murder* God bless you! 
 Decent people are ashamed of you." 
 
 This was the last they heard. 
 
 The priest waited for some time, standing 
 motionless. Then he murmured, "God forgive 
 him!" To Dolores he said: "I am glad I hap- 
 pened to* be near. You did right not to go with 
 him. * He is a very wicked, unrepentant man." 
 
 "Yes," answered Dolores. 
 
XII. 
 
 CONTRARY VISIONS 
 
 WHEN Father Maria de Jesus left the 
 church after mass the next morning, 
 he said kindly to the wistful few that 
 hung round the door, "Go to your work before 
 it is too hot. I haven't decided on anything yet. 
 To-morrow will be Sunday and then we will rest. 
 But the Lord has not spoken to me yet nor 
 given me any new light. Has He to any of 
 you?" 
 
 No one answered. But Oestocris, who gazed 
 at him with solemn bleary eyes from the edge of 
 the little crowd, nodded her white head seriously, 
 either, it might be, in answer or in confirmation, 
 of his words. But she said nothing; and started 
 towards her house even before the Father to- 
 wards his. 
 
 He turned off at the little brown adobe hut 
 where Cristoke lived. As there was no> one 
 in the porch he went inside. There was no one 
 there, either. So, after looking into both dirty 
 rooms and calling the dog, who- didn't respond, 
 he went out again. 
 
 He started towards the fields. It was already 
 hot and getting hotter every minute. The 
 ground was as warmly dry as if there had never 
 
 106 
 
CONTRARY VISIONS 107 
 
 been rain.; not a cloud in a burnished sky an- 
 nounced more. Rosary in hand, he made across 
 the road and through the dry gravelly ditch, and 
 came to a field where several men and women 
 were languidly scraping the rich but burned 
 soil. Each seemed to work independently of the 
 others; two had stopped and were standing erect, 
 saying their beads. Though none of them spoke, 
 those that noticed the Father bowed their heads 
 to him. 
 
 "Where is Cristoke?" he asked the nearest 
 man. 
 
 The man gave a grunt expressing ignorance. 
 
 A woman leaning on her rake beside him, 
 stretched an arm with its blue sleeve rolled to 
 the elbow, to point towards the next field. The 
 priest looked; but already such was the glare 
 and the steaming heat that objects could not be 
 made out at much distance; and while the whole 
 horizon trembled, there was nothing that seemed 
 actually to move. However, he started in that 
 direction. As he walked over the rough ground 
 the first thing to assert itself was the line of foot- 
 hills that bound that side of the Valley. They 
 began to take on a cool green form above the 
 warm moist blue line of mirage. Then a wooden 
 cross began to start out of the background and 
 to assume a gaunt black shape. It was a rough 
 cross, higher than a man and with wide spread- 
 ing arms. As he came nearer some dark thing 
 
108 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 on the tan-colored ground in front of the cross 
 finally proved to be a person kneeling there. 
 
 A yellow dog came wriggling towards him, 
 whining and fawning and turning up beseeching 
 eyes. It ran over his bare feet, and when he 
 halted, set first to licking them and then to pull- 
 ing with its teeth at his robe. 
 
 The person on the ground was Cristoke. His 
 spade was stuck upright into the earth near him; 
 and he was fallen back on his heels with his 
 arms stretched out on either side, like Saint 
 Francis receiving the Stigmata. His face was 
 as much transfigured w r ith rapture as if he, too, 
 were receiving some such divine communication; 
 and his wondering, protruding eyes were fixed 
 upon the bare cross. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus followed his gaze to the 
 cross; but in vain he studied the rough wood- 
 work to see what the other could see there. 
 Cristoke took no notice of him. His set look 
 was that of one hypnotized; the priest touched 
 him on the shoulder. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked eagerly; "is it a vision, 
 you see?" 
 
 The old man brought one withered arm slowly 
 round till it pointed to the cross; while the other 
 through very fatigue dropped to his side. His 
 brown lips never ceased moving in prayer. 
 
 "Don't you see him?" he replied in a trem- 
 
CONTRARY VISIONS 109 
 
 bling, hardly audible voice. 'There! on the 
 cross, San Rafael." 
 
 Dropping to his knees the priest made the 
 sign of the cross fervently again and again. 
 
 "No," he said hoarsely, staring with all his 
 eyes at the black cross; "I don't see." 
 
 "San Rafael," muttered Cristoke, "crucified 
 in glory." 
 
 The dog had gone and lain down on his belly 
 a few feet away. With his wet, narrow tongue 
 hanging out, he curiously regarded the two 
 kneeling figures, cocking his head on one side. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus stared and stared. 
 
 "O God!" he cried, suddenly dropping his 
 head on his chest and clasping his hands, "let 
 me see too." 
 
 "Make me see, make me see!" he wailed, 
 shaking his clasped hands back and forth, and 
 repeating his supplication over and over till his 
 voice broke into a dry sob, and tears began to 
 run down his cheeks. 
 
 Cristoke, his eyes always on the cross, oblivi- 
 ous of the other, kept on muttering his prayers, 
 though he sank down lower and lower on his 
 heels. 
 
 "No," sighed the priest, swallowing his sobs, 
 "I can't see him. I can't. O God, why am I 
 not worthy, too?" 
 
 Silently now, but breathing fast and loud, he 
 continued to gaze mournfully on the empty 
 
110 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 cross. At last he also murmured a short prayer, 
 and then signed himself on the brow and the 
 breast. 
 
 He remained on his knees till the trembling 
 old man by his side little by little lost the fixed- 
 ness and the light out of his wrinkled face. By 
 degrees Cristoke ceased to mutter. His eyes 
 became dull again. By and by the priest turned 
 to him and said in a whisper: "Tell me about 
 him. How did he look?" 
 
 "His face was all bright and moving," said 
 Cristoke, "it hurt my eyes. He had a gold crown 
 on; and a red robe; and incense went up all 
 the time." 
 
 "Incense?" 
 
 "Yes, that's what made the clouds round his 
 head. See! they're there yet," he pointed up 
 into a sky that was unbroken blue. 
 
 "I smelt the incense," he said simply. 
 
 "How did he come?" asked the priest. 
 
 "I was here digging, or I was going to dig. 
 And when I looked at the cross he was there 
 on it. I knew it was San Rafael, because he 
 looked like the picture in the church, at first, 
 before he got bright. And I knew it couldn't 
 be Our Lord, because he didn't have the crown 
 of thorns. This was a gold crown, like Our 
 Lady of Santa Fe." 
 
 "Did he did he say anything?" the priest 
 asked keenly. 
 
CONTRARY VISIONS ill 
 
 Cristoke shook his head slowly. For a mo- 
 ment he added nothing more. 
 
 Then: "He didn't move. Only the incense 
 went up; and before he went away he was all 
 covered with it." 
 
 The priest rose from his knees; the dog, jump- 
 ing up, too, began to wag all over. After gazing 
 silently for some time at the cross, Father Maria 
 de Jesus stooped, and taking the old man under 
 the armpits, lifted him as reverently as Mary 
 lifts Elizabeth in pictures of the Visitation. 
 
 "This is a sign at last," said the priest half to 
 himself. 
 
 "The Lord has chosen me, hasn't he?" asked 
 the old man eagerly. 
 
 "We must see," the priest was guarded, "who 
 else has had visions. Come, let's go to the 
 village." 
 
 He took the old man's spade; the dog followed 
 sedately. 
 
 As they passed through the fields, the laborers 
 followed them. Instinctively they turned to 
 Oestocris's house. The Father and Cristoke 
 entered first; behind them about a dozen Peni- 
 tentes. 
 
 It was the largest room in the hamlet, and the 
 usual place for meetings. There was nothing in 
 it but two< colored plaster-casts, a Pieta and a 
 Crucifixion, and one large rough cupboard. As 
 there were no seats, every one sat down on the 
 
112 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 ground. At one end was the Father, with Cris- 
 toke on one side of him, and Oestocris, whom 
 they had found weaving a basket, on the other. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus began, "Our prayer 
 for a sign from heaven has been answered." 
 
 The only response wa.s several grunts. 
 
 At this moment Paez came in, followed first 
 by Dolores and after a space by Fanita. No 
 one paid any attention to them as they skirted 
 the circle and crouched down, one girl on 
 either side of the young man, in a corner of the 
 gloomy room. 
 
 "What was the sign?" Oestocris asked calmly. 
 "Has Our Lady told you who is to be our 
 Christ?" There was a skeptical note in her 
 voice. 
 
 The Father recounted to them the vision of 
 Cristoke. They sat as silent as usual; only 
 moving when at each holy name he set them 
 the example to make the sign of the cross; and 
 at the end of his recital there was a good space 
 of silence. Nobody asked any questions; and 
 the first to speak was again Oestocris, who, in 
 her shrill old voice, said: "And suppose any one 
 else had a message. You do not say San Rafael 
 spoke to* him." 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 "Visions come in the night as well as in the 
 morning 1 ," pursued the old woman; "and I be- 
 
CONTRARY VISIONS 113 
 
 lieve the Holy Mother has chosen me to 1 fill her 
 own sacred part in our festival." 
 
 Everyone looked not at her but at Paez. He, 
 however, sat as self-contained as the rest of the 
 solemn circle. 
 
 The Father spoke across the dim room to him: 
 "Where were you last night? Did you have a 
 vision?" 
 
 Without turning his head Paez glanced at 
 Dolores; and Fanita saw the glance. But before 
 the young man need speak, his mother's voice 
 again cut the calmness: 
 
 "I am the one that had the message." 
 
 All their eyes shifted to* her. Raising one 
 hand, she pointed to the plaster crucifix. Under 
 its cross there was a blue Virgin. 
 
 "Our Lady of The Seven Sorrows," she be- 
 gan, "appeared to me last night while I was 
 asleep and said, 'Oestocris!' and I said, 'Here, 
 Blessed Virgin/ She was dressed in her blue 
 robe, and had a pair of glass beads in her hand, 
 and her Sacred Heart on her bosom, with a 
 crown on it and little flames out of the top. Her 
 voice was very soft and sweet, like the wind; 
 and she had a little cradle with the Infant Jesus 
 in it, all in gold and covered with jewels." She 
 paused to- make the sign of the cross, and then 
 added in a lowered voice: "And He had a face 
 just like my Paez." 
 
114 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 This statement caused a general grunt of 
 astonishment. 
 
 Cristoke, though, was very calm; he was even 
 fondling his dog, who licked his fingers. 
 
 "And she took Him out of the cradle," con- 
 tinued Oestocris, "and gave Him to me, and 
 said, 'Take Him; and when He is grown give 
 Him back to me;' and I said, 'I must take Him, 
 Blessed Lady?' Because He was all covered 
 over with jewels. But she took Him out and 
 put Him in my arms and vanished away, and 
 the jewels vanished, too. He was just like my 
 Paez; He had long black hair and little ears like 
 him. And she was just like the statue there," 
 Pointing to it again, she ceased. 
 
 The silent circle sat looking at one another 
 and at the priest. He remained with his eyes 
 fixed on the dark brown wall opposite. His lips 
 moved a little in prayer. The only sound was 
 made by Cristoke's dog twisting himself into a 
 more comfortable position. 
 
 At last Father Maria de Jesus, sighing deeply, 
 said in a grave voice, pitched lower than usual, 
 so that one or two had to lean forward to hear: 
 "I can't tell. God would not send us two' visions 
 contradicting each other. One of them must 
 be a device of the Evil One." 
 
 There was a low murmur. The old man and 
 the withered old woman on either side gave him 
 
CONTRARY VISIONS 115 
 
 a quick sharp glance. Their eyes met, and both 
 their faces darkened and their lips tightened. 
 
 "We shall have to fall back on choosing by 
 lot," said the priest sadly; "for there is not much 
 time left to choose," 
 
XIII 
 
 FANITA'S CHOICE 
 
 ATER the priest's disappointed announce- 
 ment most of the Penitentes, staying in 
 their crouching posture upon the floor, 
 began to say their beads. There soon arose a 
 muffled chant of a dozen subdued voices re- 
 peating the same prayers. It was very mono- 
 tonous; but sometimes it became louder and 
 almost fierce, and again soft and slow and 
 tender. 
 
 Paez, however, after a moment or two*, mak- 
 ing the sign of the cross repeatedly and bowing 
 on one knee to each of the plaster images, went 
 silently out into the open air. Fanita. and Do- 
 lores, getting up at the same instant, stole round 
 the wall of the dimly-lighted room. Each turned 
 at the door to make a hasty obeisance; and the 
 stranger girl found herself in the bright warm 
 porch just behind the Penitente girl. 
 
 Fanita gave the other a quick look over her 
 shoulder quick but hateful. The two girls had 
 never spoken to each other but once; and they 
 didn't speak now. 
 
 Fanita in her red waist flashed down the open 
 after Paez, who was strolling towards the river, 
 
 lie 
 
FANITA'S CHOICE 
 
 also towards Panchita's, where Dolores 
 lodged. 
 
 Dolores paused an instant, then with a frown 
 and a pursing of her lips she deliberately fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Fanita overtaking him, demanded: "Where 
 are you going?" 
 
 "Down there," he replied with a jerk of his 
 head. 
 
 "Down to her house?" said Fanita. 
 
 "Whose house?" 
 
 "That girl's;" she moved her head to indicate 
 Dolores. 
 
 "Lola? No, I'm not!" 
 
 "Don't call her Lola!" exclaimed the girl so 
 furiously that he stared at her, astonished. 
 
 "Why, Nita!" he said. 
 
 "I hate her!" cried Fanita, seizing his forearm 
 and shaking it a little, and letting it drop. 
 
 Paez fixed his black eyes on her for an instant. * 
 Then he looked on the ground; and they walked 
 on towards the river side by side. He regarded 
 the dirty white of his skin-tight cotton trousers; 
 while the maiden kept her fiery eyes straight 
 ahead. So they paced o<n till they reached the 
 brink of the shallow little river. 
 
 "Where were you last night?" snapped Fanita. 
 
 Paez, slowly turning his face toward her, an- 
 swered almost contemptuously: "Down here." 
 
Il8 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "With her?" she cried, before he had fairly 
 said the words. 
 
 He hesitated, frowning. 
 
 "Ah! I saw you look at her when Father 
 Chucho asked you where you had been. Little 
 devil! she was with you. I know it. You 
 needn't to say anything-. Why couldn't she stay 
 down in the plain where she belongs and carry 
 on her love-affairs? Why couldn't she go back 
 there? I'll pray to the Blessed Virgin to send 
 her down there again, and and " even 
 Fanita's rage hesitated "and to hell, after- 
 wards!" she added in a whisper. 
 
 Though she flushed nearly as red as her waist, 
 her eyes remained bold and flashing. 
 
 Paez looked at her, shocked. 
 
 "I can't help it," said the girl pitifully. "I 
 thought you loved me." 
 
 "I do, Nita," he protested. 
 
 "You did till she came, I know; but now " 
 
 she bit her under lip and shook her head im- 
 patiently. 
 
 "I do, I do," he insisted, taking her hand. 
 
 Fanita snatched it away. 
 
 "What did you say to her last night?" she 
 demanded coldly. " 'I do! I do!' Did you kiss 
 her?" she asked with her eyes half closed. 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 "Well, if you didn't you will soon, if you get 
 
FANITA'S CHOICE 
 
 the chance. But I don't intend to give you the 
 chance." 
 
 He looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 "I don't," she repeated firmly. "O Paez," she 
 went on with passion, "I love you, anyway, and 
 I am not going to let that girl have you. She 
 isn't a good girl, she has lovers down there, and 
 up here, too. She makes eyes at Pasco as much 
 as at you; and every other man, too. She only 
 likes you because you are a man; not because 
 you are Paez. I love you. I have always loved 
 you. You are mine, Paez," she seized his hand 
 and twisted his fingers affectionately; "and I am 
 going to give you to the Blessed Virgin." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked weakly, with 
 dry lips. He let his hand stay coldly in hers. 
 
 "I am going to give you to Our Lady to be 
 the Christ." 
 
 She turned to face him. Her eyes flashed and 
 her smile was a mixture of love and triumph. 
 
 Paez's dark face paled. His lips falling apart, 
 he stared helplessly at her. Then he looked all 
 round him, as if frightened, at the sky and at 
 the river. He breathed hard. 
 
 Fanita turned and left him. 
 
XIV 
 
 A LOVER'S PROMISE 
 
 SCARCELY was Fanita gone when Dolores 
 came from behind the little trees. Indeed, 
 the other girl, looking back over her 
 shoulder, saw them together. She turned and 
 spat on the ground towards them, but neither 
 Paez nor Dolores was watching her. 
 
 "Let's go sit down," said the girl quietly. 
 
 Paez with a disconsolate look followed her 
 through the trees. Holding their branches aside 
 tenderly to* let him pass, she led the way to the 
 small natural lawn where they had sat and talked 
 the night before. Paez threw himself down in 
 the shade; and leaning on one elbow gazed at 
 the opposite bank. The girl, sitting down near 
 his head, looked quietly at his weak, handsome, 
 frowning face. The sun. came in glimpses 
 through the branches; the only sound was the 
 whispering of the slow current; there was a faint 
 smell of warm moist mud; but where they were 
 it was comfortably cool. 
 
 Before long the girl's fixed eyes drew the 
 young man's look. He frowned harder, shook 
 his head sympathetically, and sighed. 
 
 Dolores, with eyebrows raised, half nodded to 
 show she understood. 
 
 120 
 
A LOVER'S PROMISE 121 
 
 "She's very angry, isn't she?" she began in a 
 soft tone, stooping to pull up a spear of grass. 
 
 He sighed again, in assent. 
 
 "I think I shall go away," said Dolores. 
 
 "No, stay here." He jerked himself on his 
 elbow nearer to her. 
 
 "I mean away from San Rafael," she ex- 
 plained, looking over him. 
 
 He sat up. 
 
 "Because she doesn't like you," he said de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 "Because it makes trouble for you." 
 
 Paez lay down flat on his back and stared up 
 into the trees. His long hair lay on the grass; 
 and Dolores surreptitiously moved her hand 
 along inch by inch till her finger-tips touched it. 
 
 Suddenly Paez turned over and lay on his face; 
 and somehow in doing so, he got her hand into 
 his two and put his cheek down on them. 
 
 "Stay here," he said. 
 
 "No," whispered Dolores, putting her head 
 down near him. "You come with me." 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I can't," he repeated. 
 
 "Why not?" said Dolores. "Don't you don't 
 you love me?" 
 
 "I daren't, I am afraid," he breathed. 
 
 She drew away her hand. He turned over and 
 sat up, looking at her. His face was warm and 
 
122 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 flushed and bits of leaves stuck in his black 
 locks. 
 
 "Your mother wants you to be the Christ," 
 said Dolores, almost whispering. 
 
 "I know it," he answered in the same tone. 
 
 "Aren't you afraid of that?" she asked. 
 
 "If I go they will kill me. We couldn't get 
 away." 
 
 "Yes, we could. Easy," she replied. "At 
 night." 
 
 "They would come after me and kill me," he 
 insisted. 
 
 "No, they wouldn't. Who?" said Dolores. 
 
 "I don't know. But they would." 
 
 "We will go to New Mexico. I will take care 
 of you," said the girl. 
 
 "No," he repeated, as if frightened. "No! I 
 won't." 
 
 "Do you want to be crucified?" she said. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "She wants you to be, too," said Dolores. 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I know," she half laughed. "I know well 
 enough. She's jealous. She's a beast." Dolores 
 nearly snarled. 
 
 There was a pause. Paez, who was picking at 
 the grass, coughed a little. 
 
 "They will make you carry one of those big 
 crosses forty days," began the girl with much 
 
A LOVER'S PROMISE 123 
 
 distinctness; "and they won't give you anything 
 to eat; will they?" 
 
 "Not much," said Paez nervously. 
 
 "You will have to stay out of doors all the 
 time," she went on, "in the sun and in the rain 
 every afternoon; and all night. And never go 
 to bed; never lie down without that heavy thing 
 squeezing you. Some of them die that way, 
 don't they?" 
 
 "Yes," said Paez hoarsely. 
 
 "And then, if you don't die, they will nail you 
 on it, with nails through your hands. Ugh!" 
 She shuddered and closed her eyes. "And nails 
 through you feet;" she leaned over and touched 
 his bare instep. Paez drew it away, with a little 
 cry under his breath. "Just like Our Savior on 
 His cross, suffering so dreadfully. Only He was 
 God, and it didn't hurt Him so much. And they'll 
 stick a spear in your side." She paused and 
 rubbed her hand across her eyes. 
 
 "Do they have a crown of thorns?" she asked. 
 
 Paez got his voice with an effort. "Yes," he 
 said faintly. 
 
 "Did you ever see them do it?" 
 
 He shook his head, then nodded it. 
 
 "When I was a baby," he said in a dry voice. 
 
 "Did he scream?" asked the girl. 
 
 Paez nodded. His chin trembled, and there 
 was sweat on his forehead. Dolores, putting 
 her hands over her ears, gave a little moan, 
 
124 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Don't/* implored the boy, dragging her arm 
 away. 
 
 He was shuddering nervously. 
 
 'Then come with me," begged Dolores. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 She looked into his pallid face. He fixed his 
 eyes on hers only a moment, before they rest- 
 lessly wandered away. 
 
 "Come with me," she said coaxingly. 
 
 Still he shook his head. He swallowed. 
 
 "You have a lover there," he said. 
 
 "Ah! she told you that," cried Dolores 
 angrily. 
 
 He vaguely nodded. 
 
 "Is that why you won't come? I won't go to 
 him. He knows I won't. I'd have no one but 
 you," she took his cold hand again. 
 
 "No," he said, getting up and not looking at 
 her. "No, I can't; I'm afraid." 
 
 "Coward!" cried Dolores, loud with rage. 
 
 Knitting her teeth, she squeezed his hand as 
 fiercely as she could. Then she flung it away 
 and ran from him. 
 
 In a moment, Paez, who shivered even in the 
 hot sunshine, followed. As he went through the 
 trees, she sprang out and threw her arms round 
 his neck. 
 
 "Paez," she pleaded. "Darling! Come. I 
 love you. I love you better than any one else. 
 Come," she put her head in his neck and kissed 
 
A LOVER'S PROMISE 125 
 
 his cheek. "Paez," she repeated softly, pressing 
 him to her, "come with me away from here/ 
 
 His wandering eyes at last focused themselves 
 on hers. His long hair brushed her cheek. He 
 put his head down, or let her pull it down, till his 
 lips touched her face. 
 
 "When are you going?" he asked. 
 
 "Tonight. You will come?" 
 
 "Yes," said Paez, putting his arms around her. 
 
XV 
 
 THE CURFEW 
 
 A early that night as was possible without 
 being noticed, Dolores, going into her 
 own room, tied up her bundle. As she 
 had taken little out of it, it didn't take long to 
 get it ready and placed under the unglazed win- 
 dow. Outside was the moonlight, silvering the 
 ground; darkness beyond; and overhead a serene 
 sky with a motionless moon. She could hear in 
 the porch the swishing and swashing of Pasco's 
 rinsing his dye-tubs. 
 
 With bent arm and raised hand, she hesitated. 
 Then with a swing of her skirts she flung through 
 the big living-room, where Panchita, her hands 
 folded over her rosary on her fat lap, nodded 
 in the half-light of an ill-smelling lamp. Dolores 
 having pushed the handle of her little white 
 pistol into her bosom, stepped into the porch. 
 Pasco, who was rocking a big tub on its edge, 
 stopped at once; but the girl swung past him. 
 In a moment she heard his watery task recom- 
 mence behind her. 
 
 There was no one abroad. Quietly she arrived 
 before the house of Oestocris. As there are no 
 clocks in San Rafael and as besides she had no 
 exact engagement with Paez, she waited. 
 
THE CURFEW 127 
 
 Through the open door, under the shade of 
 the porch, she could see into the house. One 
 end of the room, a dim emptiness, with a blue 
 blotch, which was the Pieta on the farther wall, 
 was all that was visible; by going farther 
 down the gentle slope she could see more of that 
 wall; and by going as far as possible and as near 
 the house as she cared to, she could just catch 
 sight of one half of old Oestocris, sitting quite 
 still on the floor. Though, after she had looked 
 for some time, the old creature moved her arm 
 and rested her hand differently on the ground. 
 
 Overhead in the sky were the yellow moon 
 and ever and ever so many stars, brighter as 
 they got farther from the moon and fewer near 
 the horizon. The sky seemed to stretch out she 
 couldn't imagine how far. Down in the Valley 
 no light was to be seen in any direction. The 
 warm air was perfectly motionless and soundless. 
 
 As Dolores stood waiting, she strained her 
 eyes not only to gaze into the house, where all 
 she found was a dark spot on the brown wall, 
 but also to' make out the windows; but stare her 
 hardest, the windows remained empty and black. 
 At last her eyes were so- tired that she looked 
 up again into the placid, twinkling sky. Sud- 
 denly a banging brought them back at once to 
 the house. But it was at some other house; this 
 one was as dark and silent, and the one open 
 
128 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 room as dim-lighted and silent as ever. Then 
 the noise stopped. 
 
 Dolores, sighing unconsciously, shifted her 
 weight to the other leg. She was weary with 
 standing. So she began, one slow step at a 
 time, to walk towards the church. At first she 
 looked over her shoulder at every step; then 
 she would take six together without looking. 
 Still Paez did not come. 
 
 She didn't go far; but turning and strolling 
 back, went a little nearer the house, even into 
 the faint patch of light falling out through the 
 door. She kept on downwards as far as she 
 could go and still see into the bare room; there 
 she halted. 
 
 Taking her little pistol out of her bosom, she 
 examined it by the light of the moon, kissed it 
 and put it back into her bosom. 
 
 After that she took her pair of beads and be- 
 gan to pray softly; but before the third Ave, with 
 an impatient sigh, she hastily stuffed them back 
 into her breast. 
 
 Then she was aware of somebody coming. 
 From the direction and the light tread it could 
 be only PascO'. She hastily slipped into the shade 
 of the house. There she waited, clenching her 
 fists nervously at her sides and winking in the 
 darkness, till she saw him first pass one way; 
 and then a long, long time, during which noth- 
 ing happened, only her heart beat and her knees 
 
THE CURFEW 129 
 
 got tired, till she saw him pass back the other 
 way. 
 
 After that, as she was creeping softly round 
 the house, carefully peering through the porch 
 posts into the one lighted room, which she could 
 see gradually more and more of, all at once the 
 light ceased, and that room was as black as the 
 rest of the house. Holding her breath to listen, 
 Dolores stood quite still. Something within the 
 house creaked. She caught with one hand to 
 the round post and harkened. There was no 
 more sound. She began to breathe softly, but 
 still she stood and listened and waited. 
 
 Then on the heavy, quiet air she began to hear, 
 far, far off, a sort of murmur; a rumbling 
 murmur, steady and monotonous, but growing 
 always a little louder, and a little louder, till it 
 could be easily heard, and the air even seemed 
 to tremble out beyond one, just a little bit. Then 
 in some way the sound became less and less, and 
 by degrees faded away into the large silence of 
 the night ; so that nobody could have said when 
 it ceased. Dolores knew that it was the ten 
 o'clock train, way off down in the Valley, passing 
 on its way to Creede. 
 
 She crept out farther into the open, where she 
 could see six of the village houses. There was 
 not a glimmer of light left in them. She knew 
 that the passing of that train is a curfew to San 
 Rafael. 
 
130 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 After more silent, hopeless waiting, she started 
 off on a fair pace to the river. Once there, push- 
 ing in among the trees, she flung herself down 
 on the bit of grass where she had talked with 
 Paez. With chin in hand she sat watching the 
 reflection of the moon break to pieces and join 
 together in the water. All at once she jumped 
 up again and fairly ran back the way she had 
 come. Stopping at her own house to put her 
 head into her own window, she called, very 
 softly, "Paez!" 
 
 Getting no answer, she hurried up to his 
 house. "Paez!" she called in a whisper, stand- 
 ing just outside the porch and holding her hand 
 to her ear. But she got as little answer here. 
 
 And although she walked cautiously five times 
 round the house, sighing wearily, and each time 
 stopping to whisper "Paez" as loud as she dared 
 into the porch; and though she waited in the 
 night a full hour of silence longer, before crawl- 
 ing back into her window, not a sign of Paez 
 did she see. She stayed, therefore, in San Rafael. 
 
XVI 
 A RECRUITING OFFICE 
 
 THE mind of Cristobal on his long ride 
 back from San Rafael and for days and 
 days afterwards was possessed with one 
 intense feeling, hatred for Father Maria de Jesus. 
 Growing, as it did, as much from his passion for 
 Dolores as from the sting of the priest's own 
 scorn for him personally, it overshadowed for 
 a time that passion. With one of his new-found 
 friends in Las Animas County, a half-Mexican 
 cowboy, with whom he spent long hours drink- 
 ing, and for whose superior knowledge of the 
 big world he soon acquired a great respect, he 
 talked over the subject of the Penitentes. His 
 naive discretion, mingled with his aversion to 
 making himself prominent since the murder of 
 Anunciato* (although the fear of punishment for 
 that was continually weakening), kept him from 
 putting the case in a very personal light. But 
 the general mind of Catholics, and especially 
 Spaniards, in those districts was so strongly 
 prejudiced against the Penitentes, as degenerate 
 half-breeds who- were at best a shame to the 
 country, that the topic was one on which he 
 met a ready response. Within himself he har- 
 bored the intense desire to make a private raid 
 
 131 
 
132 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 on the hamlet and kill at least the priest: but 
 apart from a disinclination to have another mur- 
 der menacing his safety, he was soon won over 
 to the view of his comrade that the United States 
 Government would willingly send soldiers to 
 clean out the disgraceful Indians. And ulti- 
 mately he became persuaded that it would send 
 soldiers, if it knew that a crucifixion was to be 
 held on the 24th of that very October. 
 
 It was on the i6th that this idea was really 
 clear in his mind; and nursing it as a solace to 
 his individual hatred, he saw in it the possibility 
 of his revenge. Early the next morning he was 
 up and away. Catching a train at Trinidad, he 
 arrived that afternoon in Pueblo. 
 
 This was his first visit to so large a town. 
 Rather at a loss he strolled down the ramshackle 
 main street, helplessly wondering what his next 
 move should be; when he was brought up short 
 by the sight of a sign standing on the sidewalk. 
 This sign bore pictures of a group of lusty sol- 
 diers in divers uniforms, and underneath a good 
 deal of reading matter. Looking from it to the 
 building in front of which it stood, Cristobal saw 
 in an open second-story window the back of a 
 man in blue, the same blue as in the uniforms 
 pictured. And out of the neighboring window 
 he saw hanging -a flag. This coincidence at once 
 restored his confidence, and mounting the flight 
 of stairs leading up from the street, he pushed 
 
A RECRUITING OFFICE 133 
 
 open a door and went into a bare, dingy room. 
 
 Two soldiers, one with several red chevrons 
 on his sleeves, who were sitting tilted back in 
 their chairs with their feet on a table, laughing 
 and talking to each other, got up at his entrance 
 and one of them said: "Well, young man, do you 
 want to enlist?" 
 
 "No," replied Cristobal, as if offended at the 
 question. 
 
 "Well, then, what do you want?" 
 
 "I want to tell you about the Penitentes." 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 The two soldiers stared blankly at each other 
 and then the younger one laughed. "Come on 
 old man," the Sergeant-Major encouraged him; 
 "what is it you want to tell us about?" 
 
 "About " Cristobal began again, exceed- 
 ingly dignified: and then in his embarrassment 
 taking refuge in Spanish, repeated in that lan- 
 guage, "I want to tell you about the Penitentes." 
 
 The soldiers laughed again, and one of them 
 said: "You'll never make us understand that 
 way," while the other remarked: "Better get the 
 doctor to talk to him." 
 
 At this moment an inner door, which had been 
 ajar, was pulled open and a stout, soldierly-look- 
 ing man in civilian's clothes entered. 
 
 "What is it, boys?" he asked briskly. 
 
 "This here gentleman is springing Spanish or 
 
134 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 some lingo on us, Major," replied the Sergeant- 
 Major. 
 
 Cristobal, a picture of tremendous earnestness, 
 fixed his eyes on the new-comer, who at once, 
 speaking to him in Spanish, asked: "Well, what 
 is it?" 
 
 Cristobal, his tongue loosened, poured forth a 
 torrent of hasty words, trying to tell in one 
 breath his whole story. 
 
 "Wait a minute," the surgeon caught him up, 
 "you'll have to go slower than that if you want 
 me to follow you. Come, let's have it again. 
 The Penitentes, you say. They're the people 
 down in the southern part of the State, who used 
 to have the crucifixions? I've heard of them." 
 
 "Yes," answered Cristobal; "but they are 
 going to have another next week; San Rafael's 
 Day." 
 
 'What's that you say? You're sure! Let me 
 see; I heard something about this in Denver, 
 
 but I imagine Here, one of you men," he 
 
 said in English, "run down stairs and telephone 
 to the station and get Major Connor, and when 
 you've got him, come up and let me know. It's 
 a half hour yet to train time," and he consulted 
 his watch. 
 
 The two soldiers had been standing looking 
 blankly at the two speakers in a strange tongue; 
 but at this demand the younger of them came to 
 
A RECRUITING OFFICE 135 
 
 himself and briskly enough hurried from the 
 room and rattled down stairs. 
 
 "Now, you come in here and tell me all about 
 this," said the surgeon, turning again to Cristo- 
 bal; and he led the way into the back room. 
 
 In about fifteen minutes the soldier who had 
 gone down stairs, coming up again hurriedly, 
 tapped on the inner door. "Major," he reported, 
 when it was opened, "Major Connor is at the 
 telephone, and he's in a> an awful rush; says he 
 hasn't no time to spare." 
 
 "You wait here," the surgeon directed Cris- 
 tobal over his shoulder, as he hastened out. 
 
 But Cristobal, having got the ear of an inter- 
 ested person, who seemed indeed so deeply inter- 
 ested that he was sure to carry the thing through, 
 saw no further use of his remaining there; be- 
 sides, he never altogether forgot that he was 
 himself amenable to the law, if his murder was 
 found out. Accordingly he quietly slunk from 
 the recruiting office and down stairs and away; 
 and the two soldiers not having heard their supe- 
 rior's order to him to wait, let him go. 
 
 Meanwhile the officer having taken up the 
 receiver of the telephone, said into the instru- 
 ment: "Hello, Major. You? Sorry to trouble 
 you/' 
 
 "Don't waste time apologizing," came the re- 
 sponse; "I'm in a deuce of a hurry; what is it?" 
 
 "You remember the talk about the Penitentes 
 
136 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Penitentes, yesi down in San Rafael in the 
 San Luis Valley; Oh, yes, you do, too. The 
 Colonel's pal, the Archbishop,' the Archbishop, 
 told the Colonel about a month ago, that there 
 was talk of their having a crucifixion down there; 
 and there was some discussion about sending 
 down to stop it." 
 
 "Yes, go on," came the answering voice; "I 
 believe I remember. Didn't interest me much." 
 
 "You must remember," replied the surgeon 
 with as much vehemence as is possible over a 
 telephone; "and it must interest you now. I 
 want you to report about it as soon as you get 
 to town. Listen, and be sure you get this 
 straight. Tell the Colonel I have good inside 
 information that those people are planning to 
 bring off this crucifixion next week, the 24th, 
 and he ought to send down and see about it." 
 
 "He won't have time," came the response; 
 "besides, you know the order to go " 
 
 "Tell him to telegraph at once to Washing- 
 ton " 
 
 "All right, I will. Say, old man, is there much 
 more of this?" 
 
 "No. Only promise not to forget it." 
 
 "All right. I'll tell him with your compli- 
 ments. Is that all? Good-bye " And the 
 
 droning of the telephone was suddenly the only 
 sound in the surgeon's ears. 
 
A RECRUITING OFFICE 137 
 
 "I'll write, too," he said, as he hung up the 
 receiver. 
 
 Going back through the store, he mounted to 
 the recruiting office. 
 
 "Hello, you men, where's that fellow?" he 
 asked as he went in. 
 
 "Went away, Major, just after you left," re- 
 plied the Sergeant-Major. 
 
 "The devil he did! Well, one of you go out 
 and look for him. Or, wait; it's time to close 
 up here. Both of you go." 
 
 But the surgeon never saw Cristobal again. 
 He had gone back to Las Animas County to 
 await results. 
 
XVII 
 
 AN ARBITER OF FATE 
 
 FATHER Maria de Jesus, driven to the con- 
 clusion that Heaven did not intend to 
 signify directly who was to have the honor 
 of protagonist in the festival, was forced, in order 
 not to jeopard abandoning it for that year, to 
 decide on a resort to chance. But he explained 
 to Oestocris and to Cristoke and to as many of 
 the younger Penitentes as consulted him, the 
 hand of Heaven would be as actually, though 
 less visibly, in this choosing as in the most in- 
 dubitable miracle God might have sent. 
 
 The evening of choosing being set for the next 
 after that on which .Dolores had thought of de- 
 serting San Rafael, early that morning Pasco was 
 sent down to the store at Antonito to buy the 
 implements of augury. 
 
 When about noon he came slowly riding up 
 the hill upon the Father's donkey, the whole of 
 the Penitentes were waiting before the church 
 to receive him. The priest saying his great, 
 brown beads, stood in the middle. On one hand, 
 behind his old mother, Paez was crowded near 
 Dolores. As he noticed her pushing towards 
 him among the praying people, he slipped more 
 away from her; but Fanita was not far off on 
 
 138 
 
AN ARBITER OF FATE 139 
 
 the other side. He felt in the opening- of his dirty 
 flannel shirt, and pulling out a blue glass rosary, 
 began diligently on his first Hail Mary, piously 
 looking down. Dolores getting next him, 
 nudged him with her elbow. He twisted some- 
 what away from her; but as he inadvertently 
 gave her his ear, the girl, putting her hand on his 
 shoulder and speaking into his black love-locks, 
 said in a tone that reached only to him : "Where 
 were you?" 
 
 Paez moved his shoulder uncomfortably; but 
 she kept her hand on it and breathed against his 
 hair. Turning his head slightly, but not so as 
 to let his eyes meet hers, he answered, "I 
 couldn't come. My mother " 
 
 The rest was lost under his breath, and in the 
 half-snort of contempt and anger and love that 
 the girl gave. 
 
 "Coward!" she hissed scornfully. 
 
 Tightening her lips, she stepped into an open 
 space behind the priest. As she waited there, 
 she couldn't resist leaning forward to look into* 
 his hanging brown hood. 
 
 At the same time, the other girl, Fanita, with 
 one fierce squeeze, reached Paez from in front 
 and demanded: "What was she saying?" 
 
 The young man, raising his black eyes from 
 the ground, gave her a swift glance, combining 
 fright and amusement. He said nothing; and at 
 the same instant Oestocris, pushing in front, of 
 
140 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 him to be next to the priest when Pasco arrived, 
 crowded the girl away. Fanita caught the eye 
 of Dolores; and the two girls, with lips apart, 
 glared at each other threateningly. Neither 
 would look away first; but Father Chucho came 
 between them, as he stepped forward to Pasco, 
 who was just dismounting. 
 
 The muttering of prayers ceased, as the young 
 man solemnly held out his package. It was a 
 shining white pasteboard box of playing cards; 
 and on it rested several small pieces of silver. 
 The priest put the change somewhere inside his 
 robe; and then as the Penitentes, with wide eyes 
 over one another's shoulders, closed in round 
 him, he slit the edge of the box with his thumb- 
 nail, and slid out the smooth white-edged cards. 
 One dropped. Cristoke had stooped in an in- 
 stant to pick it up, thereby losing his chance of 
 holding the box, which the priest carefully placed 
 in the eager hands of Oestocris. She minutely 
 examined the picture on the front. 
 
 Father Chucho, taking in his left hand the 
 card which the trembling old man reverently 
 handed him, said: "This will be our first sign. 
 Look, all of you! This card, the one that fell 
 to the ground, shall be the one that bears the 
 signal." 
 
 As he held it out, they all pressed closer to see 
 it. He showed it nearer, here and there. It was 
 the King of Spades. 
 
AN ARBITER OF FATE 141 
 
 "It is a man, you see," he went on; "as who 
 should say, 'Ecce Homo!' and he wears a crown, 
 the glorious crown of thorns of Our Lord." 
 
 No one's eyes were more glued to the card 
 than Fanita's. 
 
 "I will put it into the middle of them all," 
 continued Father Maria de Jesus, "and I will 
 now lay them before the Host on the altar; 
 where it is always right to leave whatever is to 
 be blessed to the special service of the church. 
 Keep a special fast to-day, and all of you pray 
 to the Blessed Virgin and your patron saints to 
 oversee and bless our sacred undertaking." 
 
 He went alone into the church. They could 
 see that he laid the cards upon the altar and 
 kneeled down before it. 
 
 Then the gathering broke up. Dolores with 
 one cutting look at Paez, hurried to the side of 
 Pasco; Panchita joined them. The rest dis- 
 persed to their several houses. A day of fast 
 meant only prayer and contemplation, no work 
 in the parching fields. 
 
 They all left but Fanita. She hung irresolutely 
 round the church; first peeping in and then 
 turning her back to look under her shading hand 
 down the hill. The sun was blazing down piti- 
 lessly; and though, like all the Penitentes, the 
 girl was used to feel his scorching rays on her 
 black hair, this morning she pulled up the back 
 of her blue skirt and put it over her head. In 
 
142 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 that way, it hid all of her red waist, except just 
 in front. Her dark face was heavy with decision; 
 her eyes sick-looking but firm. 
 
 When she saw the priest slowly rise from the 
 altar, she slipped stealthily round the church, 
 and waited cautiously in the handsbreadth of 
 shade there. She heard his bare feet on the 
 ground. Another silent minute and she had 
 stolen back round the corner and into the church. 
 The air inside was close: she let her skirt drop 
 again. Curtesying low to the altar, she made the 
 sign of the cross with a finger-end of holy water. 
 
 With only one glance behind, she stepped 
 boldly up into the chancel and took the box of 
 cards off of Dolores's white mantilla on the altar. 
 Then she sat down on the chancel-edge, facing 
 the open door. Looking every other moment 
 toward the door, she opened the box and began 
 with awkward fingers to sort the cards, which 
 stuck together. She laid them down carefully 
 round her, each one separate. Though she did 
 it as expeditiously as possible, she paused to look 
 at the Queens. The first one, her of -Diamonds, 
 she turned both ways up to see the two faces. As 
 soon as she reached the King of Spades, which 
 she compared with the Queen and the Knave, 
 so as to be sure, she shoved the cards all together 
 again, with the fatal one on top. As she was 
 squaring the edges and slipping them into the 
 box, she paused to take them out again. Twice 
 
AN ARBITER OF FATE 143 
 
 she slowly dealt out six cards with her left hand; 
 each time she turned up the first one to be sure 
 it was the King. She deliberated a moment, 
 her forehead wrinkled. With a final nod she put 
 them in and rather difficultly closed the box. 
 
 Then, with more hesitation and timidity than 
 she had taken it down, she put it back into its 
 place. Making the sign of the cross three times, 
 she pushed back Dolores's white mantilla, bowed 
 devoutly, and kissed the altar between her hands 
 as the priest does at mass. 
 
 She came out of the church with her face 
 serious but peaceful. 
 
XVIII 
 
 CASTING THE LOT 
 
 THAT evening when it was slowly getting 
 dark outside and when indoors it was 
 already dark except for the smoky lan- 
 tern on Oestocris's old chest, the Penitentes 
 began by ones and twos to arrive at her house. 
 Fanita, among the earliest, came hurrying in, 
 and instead of sitting demurely down on the 
 floor, like those already there, and droning un- 
 intelligible prayers, she shot across to the old 
 woman, who was standing near the lamp with 
 her back to the door, and caught her round the 
 body. 
 
 "Don't do that," exclaimed Oestocris severely, 
 pulling free. "Who is it? Oh, Fanita! Why are 
 you so foolish and childish?" 
 
 "Sh," cautioned the girl, finger on lip. "Don't 
 scold. I have something important," she looked 
 over her shoulder. "I have had a message." 
 
 "A message?" repeated Oestocris in a glad 
 tone of comprehension. 
 
 "From Saint Francis," she spoke low. 
 
 The gray old creature nodded, impatient for 
 more. 
 
 "You know he received the marks himself," 
 said Fanita, tapping her left palm with her right 
 
 144 
 
CASTING THE LOT 145 
 
 forefinger. "He is my Saint. And he is the 
 special patron ," she paused. 
 
 "Yes/* whispered the old woman with fixed 
 eyes. 
 
 "He wishes Paez to have it." 
 
 Oestocris's hard features smiled as she made 
 the sign of the cross. 
 
 "He told me," the girl went on, "Paez must 
 sit at the beginning of the circle to-night. Look! 
 put him there," she pointed boldly; "under the 
 Pieta; and when the Father considers where to 
 begin " 
 
 The old Indian's eyes were alight with pleas- 
 urable understanding. 
 
 "The Saints have heard us," she said fervently, 
 but in a low tone; 'Sve shall be honored and 
 blessed, I as his mother, you as his sweetheart." 
 
 Her withered old hand sought the girl's soft 
 young one and squeezed it hard. 
 
 During this conversation the Penitentes had 
 been quietly arriving. Each one, making the 
 sign of the cross at the threshold, would go 
 direct to some vacant space and without a word 
 would sit on the floor and begin to pray. The 
 women sat nearest the walls and the men formed 
 a ring in front. 
 
 Oestocris, going to Paez, who was sitting near 
 the door as absorbed as the rest, stooped, and in 
 a whisper, bade him "Get up!" 
 
 He rose mechanically. 
 
146 THE PENtTENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Taking him by one arm, she led him across 
 the room. Those in the way shuffled aside to let 
 them by, and the two< men sitting under the blue 
 plaster Pieta, separated to make room for them 
 to stand. Still holding her son by the arm, the 
 old woman mumbled a prayer; then leaning 
 towards him, said in a low tone: "Sit down and 
 stay in this place." 
 
 Paez dropped obediently to his knees and sat 
 on the earthen floor. His mother, recrossing 
 the circle, sat down nearly opposite him. 
 
 A moment more and Father Maria de Jesus 
 appeared in the doorway. Place was made for 
 him to go into* the middle of all his flock thus 
 huddled together in this dim, hot, smoky room. 
 The priest with his arms extended kneeled down 
 facing the Pieta. His great brown rosary was. in 
 one hand, the case of cards in the other. After a 
 silent prayer, standing up, he said to Oestocris: 
 "Have you any tapers?" 
 
 Paez was half risen, when the old woman in a 
 loud, determined voice, answered "No." 
 
 Paez, catching her eye, sank down again. 
 
 "I offered my last one this morning," she ex- 
 plained in a more suave tone, "to Our Lady of 
 Santa Fe." 
 
 Father Chucho nodded to a small boy who was 
 looking at him inquiringly from just inside the 
 doorway. The small boy vanished into* the silver 
 night. While he was gone, quiet reigned. Every- 
 
CASTING THE LOT 147 
 
 one had ceased praying; there was only the 
 sound of so many people breathing. The priest 
 in his rough brown robe, with his bare feet, the 
 hand holding the rosary clasped over the one 
 holding the playing-cards, stood in the center. 
 His face was stern and deliberative. 
 
 When the boy reappeared, Father Chucho 
 stretched over the intervening sitters to grasp 
 the two candles. Then laying the cards on the 
 floor and putting the beads through his rope- 
 girdle, he stood on tiptoe and reached at arm's 
 length to fasten one of the tapers upright on the 
 shelf above Paez's head and to light it with some 
 matches he drew from his bosom. The other he 
 arranged the same way before the plaster cruci- 
 fixion. During this, all eyes were fixed on the 
 shining packet lying in the midst; except those 
 of Dolores, sitting next to Panchita and behind 
 Pasco. From the dark background her eyes 
 were fixed on Paez. 
 
 The lights being arranged, the priest kneeled 
 again and now prayed 1 audibly to Our Lady of 
 the Seven Sorrows, for her aid in their enterprise. 
 After a briefer prayer than he often made, he 
 took up the box and slipped out the cards. Then 
 he paused. 
 
 "Begin under the Blessed Virgin, Father," 
 spoke out Oestocris clearly in the midst of the 
 silence. For a moment all the eyes shifted to her. 
 Then they moved back to the cards. There was 
 
148 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 a Virgin in each statue; but in turning towards 
 Oestocris, the Father's eye fell on the Pieta. 
 
 "You are right," said he. "I had proposed 
 beginning there. I was only thinking how to 
 explain. I will distribute one card each," he 
 went on deliberately, "till all are gone. They 
 are not to be touched or turned over till then; 
 and at the end whoever has the King with the 
 two Spades " 
 
 A general sigh of relief rose as he carefully 
 took the first card from the top of the deck and 
 laid it, with its rose-pink back upwards, in front 
 of Paez. There were fifteen men in the circle. 
 They sat quite still; but the women and children 
 behind them were soon on their feet, straining 
 their necks to see each card carefully placed; and 
 each one holding her breath when it came the 
 turn of her son or husband or father. 
 
 Though all the men received their cards silent- 
 ly, most of them made some nervous movement. 
 Old Cristoke made the sign of the cross tremu- 
 lously for each of his three. Paez writhed visibly. 
 Only Pasco kept utterly still. 
 
 The three cards that each one got the priest 
 ranged somewhat in the form of a cross witli 
 very short arms. There were left eight cards, 
 enough to go half round again. The Father, as 
 he dealt the cards, turned so as to face one can- 
 didate after another. These last eight he placed 
 with increased deliberation. 
 
CASTING THE LOT 
 
 One woman uttered a little moan of excite- 
 ment which no one noticed. 
 
 When all the cards were delivered there was 
 another sigh of relief; and then another tense 
 silence of waiting. The priest finally revolved 
 himself round on his knees till he faced the Pieta. 
 The candle-grease had been dripping on the 
 shoulder of the flannel shirt of Paez. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus made another prayer, 
 to Our same Lady of Sorrows, asking her, if any 
 human error had been made in the distribution 
 of the cards, to deign mercifully to intervene and 
 miraculously to change them as best suited her 
 and San Rafael and the Father Himself, in 
 Whose honor and to Whose glory the Penitentes 
 were now, as in all things, proceeding. 
 
 No sooner had he said "Amen," than he 
 stooped suddenly and turned over the top one 
 of the four cards of Paez. It was the King of 
 Spades. 
 
 A low wondering murmur ran round the circle 
 of women. Oestocris pushing into 1 the circle, 
 ran over, fell on her knees, and examined the 
 card. Then in her strident voice, she began 
 thanking the Blessed Virgin so loud that little 
 else was to be heard. The priest joined with her. 
 Little else could have been heard, anyway, save 
 the labored breathing of the trembling, haggard 
 old Cristoke, whose every breath was a little 
 groan. 
 
150 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 With shaking fingers he began dreamily turn- 
 ing over his own cards; then he leaned and did 
 the same with those of the youth next him. All 
 at once his weak old eyes grew fixed on one of 
 them. It was the Jack of Spades. Snatching it 
 up, he stumbled to his knees. 
 
 "Father," he called brokenly and gaspingly. 
 "Here here is another!" 
 
 All sounds ceased, even Oestocris's praying. 
 The youth whose card it was stared with horror. 
 Paez had his hand over his mouth, while Father 
 Chucho took the card and scrutinized it care- 
 fully. 
 
 "No," he said at last, "that one had blue hair; 
 they are all a good deal alike." 
 
 Oestocris at once resumed her loud prayer. 
 Cristoke relaxed into a heartbroken little heap. 
 The women, dropping" to their knees, joined in 
 the praying and the men at first sitting silent, 
 soon got on their knees and did the same. 
 
 Only Paez, with pale face and drooping chin, 
 sat facing all the others and staring through 
 them into vacancy. 
 
 Fanita, who was praying volubly, was nearly 
 as red as her vermilion waist. But Dolores was 
 as ashy as Paez. Squeezing past Panchita, she 
 flung herself out into the open night, under the 
 placid moon. She could look into the same room 
 as the night beforey then so still and empty; 
 now crowded with hot kneeling figures and buzz- 
 
CASTING THE LOT 151 
 
 ing with the monotony of praying voices; and 
 in the midst, sitting dejected, silent, she could 
 see that set, weak, gray face, the straight hang- 
 ing, black locks, and those hopeless, unseeing 
 eyes. 
 
XIX 
 
 THE CROSS-BEARER 
 
 EARLY the next morning the Penitentes 
 assembled in the church. The cards had 
 been ranged round its brown walls, 
 three or four under each Station. The King of 
 Spades himself had been nailed to the foot of the 
 cross that bore the great wax Christ. 
 
 Paez had one of the front benches to himself. 
 Instead of his flannel shirt and white trousers, 
 he wore one of Father Chucho's rough brown 
 gowns, which was tied round his waist with a 
 rope whence dangled a huge rosary. Already he 
 had had his tonsure shaved; and the round spot 
 was staring white in the midst of his long coal- 
 black shiny hair. The face he turned to the altar 
 this morning was rather heavy than despairing. 
 
 The sermon which Father Chucho preached 
 after mass was largely a. synopsis of former festi- 
 vals; a sort of order of the day, which most of 
 them knew from experience or tradition. Dur- 
 ing the forty days before San Rafael's Day he 
 whom Heaven had chosen was to begin his pious 
 undertaking by emulating the Savior's fast in the 
 wilderness. 
 
 "None of you," said the priest, "must carry 
 him any food; though, since we all know that 
 
 152 
 
THE CROSS-BEARER 153 
 
 however holy we poor mortals may become, we 
 are still, so long as we remain on this wicked 
 earth, only human; therefore, I will feed him 
 every day with the Eucharist. And this shall 
 represent not only the bread brought by the 
 angels to Elijah, but also the heavenly and in- 
 visible manna of the spirit with which Our Lord 
 was nourished by the Father. And not only are 
 none of you to minister to- him during his 
 sojourn, but it will be better if none of you 
 speak to him. I do not forbid that, for you know 
 that angels from heaven consorted in the wilder- 
 ness with Christ. But take care that your weak 
 words are not rather those of the tempter. As 
 we are all more liable to sin than to shine, look 
 to it that you shall not be in danger of being 
 called Satan." 
 
 He made a sign in the air to avert the evil 
 omen. As he stepped back to the altar, the 
 priest lifted his feet carefully; and all, by strain- 
 ing their necks, could see that he was stepping 
 over the black wooden beam of the huge cross, 
 which lay there ready. Father Maria de Jesus 
 beckoned to Paez, who rose listlessly. The priest 
 gave him a helping hand up into the chancel. 
 The young man in the loose gown stood as 
 motionless and heavy-looking, near the Epistle 
 side of the altar, as if he had been drugged. His 
 lack-luster eyes saw none of those fastened upon 
 him; not even Fanita's nor Dolores's. 
 
154 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 The small acolyte in red, standing 1 at the 
 Gospel side, held a large brass bowl into which 
 the priest, who* wore his green chasuble and stole, 
 dipped a silver water-brush and slowly aspersed 
 the holy-water over the cross at his feet,' going 
 carefully from one end to the other. When he 
 sprinkled what water remained out upon the 
 standing congregation, they all, as a drop 
 touched them, bowing down here and there, 
 made the sign of the cross. 
 
 Then he gave the censer to the red acolyte to 
 fill and to fire. Standing on the altar step, he 
 turned to the crucifix and censed it; then facing 
 about to swing the smoking pot on its brazen 
 chains, he censed the Penitentes; after that he 
 turned to Paez. Then he gave back the censer 
 to the boy, who kept it swinging steadily, while 
 he himself, taking the tractable Paez, who moved 
 as in a dream, made him lie face down upon the 
 cross, his arms stretched out on its arms. He in 
 his stiff green silk kneeled behind reciting the 
 Lord's Prayer in Latin, while the scarlet boy 
 with the censer, from the altar step behind swung 
 out great sweet puffs of smoke, now on one side 
 of the priest, now on the other. 
 
 The Penitentes dropped to their knees during 
 the prayer; but rose again when Father Maria 
 de Jesus, after pulling Paez up o-ff the cross, let 
 him stand demurely in his place again. 
 
 Then the Father stooped and tried to lift the 
 
THE CROSS-BEARER 155 
 
 cross. Though he could raise the end from the 
 floor he could not stand it up. So with a glance 
 he summoned two of all the ready men in the 
 church below. Several who*, thinking they had 
 caught his eye, started up, he waved back with 
 his hand. Pasco and another who was young 
 and powerful, coming up, proud but timid, 
 dropped to one knee in front of the altar before 
 they put hand to the task. .With their aid the 
 priest got the heavy cross on end, leaning in 
 one corner. 
 
 As soon as it was in place he bent forward, 
 holding the upright beam between his two hands 
 and reverently kissed the rough wood. Then 
 he called Paez, who mechanically went through 
 the same motions. After him the acolyte, Pasco, 
 and the other man in turn kissed it. As each one 
 finished, he very slowly and gravely made the 
 sign of the cross. 
 
 Then the priest turned, and as he gave a sig- 
 nal with his head, at once there was a movement 
 among the men. Old tottering Cristoke, who 
 sat on the end of a front bench this time, came 
 first; and after him all the men and boys one 
 by one, down to a tot led by his father. Eagerly 
 but slowly they came in turn; and each one 
 solemnly saluting the altar, then walking with 
 dignity the few steps to the cross and kissing 
 it just as the priest had, finally bowed before the 
 
156 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Father who gave him a blessing before he de- 
 scended. 
 
 After the men had all gone out of the church 
 one by one, except the Father, the acolyte, and 
 Paez, the signal was given to the women. Head- 
 ed by Oestocris, they came as slowly and as 
 dignifiedly as the men; but they breathed mo-re 
 nervously and held their lips longer to the cross. 
 
 At last when they too were finished, and 
 Father Maria de Jesus could see through the 
 open door the silent groups out in the sunshine, 
 he made a signal to the boy to begin ringing the 
 bell. The boy seized the rope; ancj as peal after 
 muffled peal beat forth beyond the roof above 
 them, Paez without a. word, his face set, laid 
 hold of the huge cross, toppled it slowly over, 
 and hand over hand let it gradually down toward 
 him, till the beam turning rested on his shoulder, 
 the cross-bar down in front, exactly as you may 
 see in the Station of the Cross. 
 
 Dragging the great weight behind him, he 
 got slowly down out of the chancel and step by 
 step trailed down the aisle and out the open 
 door, behind him the priest in his green chasu- 
 ble holding up .his fingers in blessing. As the 
 door, though high enough, was not broad 
 enough, the cross had to be carefully manipu- 
 lated through. This Paez managed with un- 
 heeding pains. 
 
 So there was left in the dim heavy-smelling 
 
THE CROSS-BEARER 157 
 
 church only the scarlet-robed, dark-faced little 
 acolyte, who pulled and relaxed on his taut bell- 
 rope, trying to see but not seeing what was be- 
 ing done outside. When, however, he did see 
 the crowd round the door separate and the 
 creature, weighed down by a heavy cross bound 
 on his back, stumble through the middle of them, 
 he left off ringing and hurried out to watch with 
 the rest, the weary, crawling, stumbling brown 
 figure, bent under his cruel load, going alone to 
 the wilderness. 
 
PART SECOND 
 XX 
 
 THE COMING OF STANCE 
 
 MOUNT BLANCA, immense and blue, 
 rising from a lake of mirage, smiled 
 upon the far-reaching San Luis Valley. 
 The sun also smiled on the Valley this afternoon, 
 and very warmly. The heat rose vibrating. All 
 the trees on the horizon floated in mirage. The 
 few shadows were like pieces of black paper cut 
 out smoothly and laid on the glaring yellow 
 sand. The flat lands were very quiet. In Anto- 
 nito, except for a few loungers round the rail- 
 way station, not a man was to be seen. Not a 
 mul*>wagon crept over the sand roads. At 
 Alamosa the down train from Denver and 
 Pueblo turned off the long tangent, the fifty- 
 two-mile tangent, tracking through the intermin- 
 able waste, and came on to the sixteen-mile 
 tangent. Soon it could be seen from Antonito. 
 As the smoke crept nearer, and then as the nar- 
 row-gauge rumbled up to the ramshackle station 
 and stopped with much puffing, the loungers 
 with their hands in their shaps pockets, lazily 
 arose. Only one passenger got off. 
 
 He was dressed not in flannel shirt and buck- 
 
 159 
 
160 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 skin snaps, nor yet like a swell; but in a long! 
 brown linen duster. He carried a bag covered 
 with Brussels carpet. A great pile of elongated 
 bundles of white canvas, and several bunches of 
 tin pots and kettles strung on ropes having been 
 rattled out summarily from the baggage car, the 
 train departed. The loungers stared at the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Where is Peter Wezel's hotel?" he asked in 
 a brisk, pleasant voice. 
 
 One dirty youth in a wide felt hat came to the 
 end of the platform to point it out to him. 
 "There it is," he drawled. "Do you want that 
 baggage took anywheres?" 
 
 "Why, no," answered the other, walking away. 
 "It isn't mine." 
 
 "Some one else a'comin'?" called the youth 
 after him. 
 
 "Think there must be," he replied over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 The house was near. It was one of the very 
 few wooden buildings in the adobe village, and 
 had been painted yellow. At the front door sat 
 a slotichy fat man with one eye, who got up as 
 the stranger approached. He was lame., 
 
 "I was told you could keep me here," began 
 the thin man, depositing his carpet-bag on a 
 bench along the house-front. 
 
 Wezel took out his pipe and spat before say- 
 ing, "Naturally. It's the only hotel in town." 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE 161 
 
 "Can I have a room?" 
 
 "I guess you could. There's three with beds 
 to 'em and no one here nor likely comin'. They 
 ain't much choice. Will I take your grip?" 
 
 His good eye was red and sleepy. 
 
 "Yes, thank you. Or, wait; I'll come and see 
 the rooms. I might have a preference." 
 
 As they entered the dingy hall the landlord 
 said, slowly, sucking his pipe, "They ain't no 
 choice in summer. I wouldn't sleep in none of 
 'em. And they're all two dollars a day." 
 
 "Some more people are coming," said the tall 
 man mildly. The sleepy eye began to waken. 
 "Some soldiers." 
 
 "Where are they at now?" asked Wezel doubt- 
 ingly. 
 
 "They got off above. I dare say they'll be here 
 soon." 
 
 "Wanted to* march down, I reckon, for the 
 exercise," suggested the host, wiping his red, 
 sweating face. 
 
 The stranger, going so quickly from one mis- 
 erable room to another as to give the lame man 
 no time for another slow question, picked out 
 the best of the three. He left his valise and his 
 duster on the bed. His clothes were black. He 
 was clean-shaven. 
 
 When they were again down-stairs, "I sup- 
 pose that's the church," he said, pointing to a 
 triangular-topped facade across the trees. 
 
162 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 "And Father Emanuele lives right there?" 
 
 "If he ain't dead," said Wezel, with a choking 
 cough by way of laugh, "and gone to purgatory. 
 Wait a minute. You have to make your mark." 
 
 He limped inside and came out with a dog's- 
 eared leather-covered ledger. 
 
 "You're no friend of the Father's," said the 
 stranger tentatively, glancing at Wezel as he 
 wrote. 
 
 " 'Joseph Dumain,' " read the host, taking the 
 book, "I ain't no man's enemy. Residence, 
 please; or last temporary residence. Pueblo'll 
 go." 
 
 Dumain, taking book and pencil again, wrote, 
 saying: "As it happens, I do reside there. So 
 you don't object to the Father?" 
 
 "If it ain't one Father it's bound to be an- 
 other," answered Wezel, dispassionately, "I ain't 
 no Catholic myself, nor no Saint. But Emanuele 
 don't bother me, if he is a damn fool." 
 
 Dumain wrote "S. J." after his name. 
 
 "I see your last guest was more than a week 
 ago," he said. 
 
 "Yes. Leather Jimson after a horse. The 
 boys is all gone up to Cripple, most; and the 
 place is dull. But if there's soldiers a-comin' - 
 Say, look here," his eye grew intelligent, "strang- 
 er, do you know the row? Is it Saints? Nit? 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE 163 
 
 Then, say, is it the San Rafaelers? My, there'll 
 be some fun, sure!" 
 
 Dumain only nodding mysteriously, left him; 
 and with a curious glance up the railway track, 
 hurried off towards the church. 
 
 Wezel with another choking chuckle also 
 looked up the straight, narrowing track. Shad- 
 ing his eye, he could see something. Not a train; 
 it must be a hand-car. Squinting with his good 
 eye, he moved into the shade and watched it. 
 When it got nearer, he could see that it was 
 worked by five blue-legged men with their coats 
 off. He was not near enough to> hear their 
 swearing. 
 
 He went inside a minute to see how many 
 full bottles of whisky he had. When he came 
 out again, the soldiers, with their coats over their 
 arms, were tramping over from the station. 
 
 "Hello," shouted one of them. "Got two 
 rooms?" 
 
 "Got any whisky?" asked a young one with 
 a blonde mustache. 
 
 "Go it easy, Alfie," said the dark one. 
 
 "Got enough stuff to keep us for a week?" 
 pursued Alfie. "Greens; we must have lettuce. 
 Rob the trains," as Wezel shook his head. "The 
 old priest over there has got it, I'll bet." 
 
 He and the three privates set themselves along 
 the bench, wiping their glowing faces and necks. 
 The dark man, standing, said quietly: "There are 
 
164 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 two of us officers and twenty men. The rest are 
 coming along down the road with the Sergeant. 
 We may be here a week." 
 
 He put on his blouse, that of a Captain. 
 
 "Alfie, put on your blouse; you're too hot. 
 Tell the men to put on theirs. We ain't used to 
 this heat up north." 
 
 "I got one room taken, that's all," said Wezel. 
 "He come on the train. I reckon you seen him." 
 
 "Good God, is he here?" cried Alfie, jumping 
 up. "Where is he? Will I kick him when I 
 get him? The scoundrel! A thin actor chump 
 in a duster? That's the man. Oh, just wait. 
 What the hell did he make us get off up there 
 for?" 
 
 The privates added to the cursing. 
 
 "He wanted to get the best room," said Alfie, 
 who was a Lieutenant, answering his own ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "He's gone to see the priest," the Captain 
 turned to explain to the other. "We'll have to 
 wait till he gets back before we go there. I 
 wonder who he can be?" 
 
 "I got his name in the book," said Wezel, 
 blinking excitedly. 
 
 "Fetch it out," cried Alfie. "Trot along." 
 
 Wezel limped briskly in and got it. 
 
 "Joseph Dumain, S. J.," read the Captain. 
 "What's 'S. J.?'" 
 
 "Society of Jesus. He's a damned Jesuit!" 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE 165 
 
 exclaimed Alfie. "He stopped us so as to give 
 old Emanuele warning." 
 
 "There's more in it than that," said the Cap- 
 tain, considering. "What good would that do? 
 He'll know soon enough, anyway. Here he 
 
 comes." 
 
 "Where is his dirty duster?" said Alfie. "He 
 looks like a priest now, doesn't he?" 
 
 "Will you make your marks, gentlemen, while 
 we wait?" said Wezel, offering the book. "He 
 walks slower than he did before, when he was 
 with me." 
 
 The Captain wrote: 
 
 "Capt. Dan Houghteling, U. S. A." 
 
 "Alfred Stange, U. S. A." 
 
 "You don't want the names of the men," he 
 said. 
 
 "Put 'and twenty men/ " suggested Stange. 
 
 Wezel looked wistfully at Stange's good- 
 natured young face. 
 
 "I've always had everybody's name what come 
 to the hotel." 
 
 "Cameron'll write them down for you;" with 
 his head he jerked the reassured innkeeper to- 
 wards the seated soldiers. 
 
 As Cameron after some consultation with his 
 comrades began with dignity to write, Stange 
 turned to where the Jesuit was bowing to 
 Houghteling. 
 
 The Captain bowed stiffly in return. 
 
166 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Captain Houghteling?" asked Dumain, af- 
 firmatively. 
 
 Alfie Stange, with a mocking salute cried, 
 "Why the deuce did you dump us off back there 
 for?" 
 
 Dumain looked inquiringly at Houghteling, 
 who smiled and said nothing. After a moment 
 he asked, complaisantly, "I suppose you make 
 the same inquiry as Mr. Stange?'* 
 
 "How does he know all our names?" said 
 Alfie over his shoulder to Wezel; and then he 
 cried to Dumain: "Of course, he does. Explain, 
 old man." 
 
 Dumain took off his soft hat to wipe his fore- 
 head. 
 
 "In the first place," he said smiling, "being 
 the oldest, I wanted the best room. And I am 
 sure you wouldn't begrudge it to> me if you saw 
 it. Secondly," he went on, studying the Cap- 
 tain's set face, "I wanted to see the village Father, 
 Emanuele, first, before you came. But, as it 
 happens in that, too, I am foiled. He is gone 
 down the Valley for the afternoon." 
 
 "Serves you right," laughed Stange. 
 
 Houghteling' s face continued black. 
 
 "But come," said Dumain briskly, "let us go 
 inside where I can explain it all more fully. Will 
 you come? Bring any of your if you will. I 
 don't know what confidence you place in your 
 
 men." 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE 167 
 
 Houghteling shook his head impatiently. 
 
 "I wish the Sergeant was here," he said aloud 
 to himself. "He has some good ideas." 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Wezel will join us, too," con- 
 tinued Dumain. "I believe we may trust him." 
 
 Peter Wezel, hearing this, came limping along 
 with the book. 
 
 "We were told so," said Stange; "which is 
 more than we know about you." 
 
 Houghteling smiled grimly. 
 
 "So I understood," agreed Dumain unruffled, 
 "I also was told that Mr. Wezel is, I may say, 
 on our side." 
 
 He put his hand through Stange's arm as 
 they went in. He was taller than Stange. 
 
 There was a large rough table in the rougher 
 wooden room which untidily served as bar and 
 parlor. The four silently took sides round it, 
 Dumain opposite the Captain. Alfie's sword 
 clanked against his chair-legs; Houghteling took 
 his on his knees. 
 
 "First may I order a little whisky or some- 
 thing to drink on this hot day?" began Dumain 
 cordially. 
 
 Wezel, jumping up with professional skill, 
 retched a bottle and glasses. 
 
 "Some water, too," said Houghteling sharply. 
 
 No one spoke while the glasses were filling. 
 When Wezel came last to Dumain, the Jesuit 
 covered his glass with his hand and reached for 
 
i68 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 the dirty water decanter. Alfie smiled. Hough- 
 teling pushed his glass of weak whisky and 
 water from him. Alfie raised his eyebrows at 
 nobody. 
 
 There was a long pause. Suddenly Alfie 
 Stange reached for his glass; Wezel followed 
 his example. Both took deep draughts just as 
 Dumain began to say to the Captain: "It is just 
 as well to keep one's head clear." 
 
 Then he began, leaning over the table and 
 speaking somewhat as if he were addressing a 
 large audience: "Gentlemen, as you probably 
 know, I am a Jesuit. It is unnecessary to say 
 how my superiors came to know you were being 
 sent down here in regard to the reported trouble 
 at San Rafael. Probably such a movement, 
 though your numbers are small, is not altogether 
 to be kept a secret. Anyway, I dare say, if a 
 demonstration in that village is prevented it 
 will satisfy you as well as if one is made and 
 put down." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," mumbled Alfie. "There 
 are no others." 
 
 Houghteling looked unrelaxing. Dumain 
 watched him narrowly for a minute, and then 
 said directly to Wezel, who was at one side, "To 
 be sure it has been said that an ounce of pre- 
 vention is worth a pound of cure. And of course, 
 I do not know what your plans may be; but it 
 seems to me that it would be a great deal more 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE 169 
 
 effective to let the Penitentes get to the point 
 almost of their ceremony and then to stop them 
 in the act, than merely to prevent them by your 
 presence. For you might have to do that every 
 year; and the other would break up the affair 
 forever. The Archbishop, I may say the Holy 
 Father himself, for in the church even a detail 
 so remote is considered important, the Arch- 
 bishop fully sympathizes with the Governmental 
 desire to stamp out this superstitious practice, 
 however it is to be done; and that is why I 
 am here." 
 
 "Why doesn't the Holy Father stamp it out 
 in Mexico?" demanded Alfie. "There's plenty of 
 crucifying there." 
 
 Dumain merely glanced at Stange and went 
 on, to Houghteling: "So in order that " 
 
 "That's a rather good point of Lieutenant 
 Stange's," Houghteling interrupted. "How 
 about Mexico?" 
 
 Alfie smiled pertly at the priest. Wezel seemed 
 most interested in occasional sips of whisky. 
 
 Quite unruffled, Dumain explained: "Of 
 course, the initiative of the Government is need- 
 ed, which is quite wanting in Mexico, so far as 
 opposition to the criminal rites of the Penitentes 
 goes. The church militant is not extant in this 
 century, except metaphorically. But really, this 
 is a side issue. It is a fact, if you will believe it, 
 that my superior officers have sent me down here 
 
170 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 for no other purpose than to assist you, if you 
 will let me." 
 
 "Quite without any desire on the part of our 
 superior officers, I suppose," replied Houghtel- 
 ing coldly. 
 
 "I don't know," answered the other simply, 
 "very likely with some understanding. I don't 
 inquire into* my superiors' reasons. I obey 
 orders." 
 
 "So do I," retorted Houghteling; "and I have 
 none about you." 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Dan," cried Stange. 
 
 "Don't you be insubordinate, young man," 
 said the Captain, with his first real smile. 
 
 "I suppose you are here with some warrant to 
 exercise your discretion," said Dumain calmly. 
 "Otherwise I will not inquire into your plans. 
 At least, until we are on terms of confidence." 
 
 "I don't suppose," replied Houghteling with 
 more openness than he had yet shown, "that if 
 we did take you into our confidence and you 
 betrayed it, that you could prevent our doing 
 what we came for. Either the San Rafaelers 
 would get scared and give up their performance, 
 which is just what we want; or even if they 
 didn't, you could hardly raise an armed force to 
 prevent our preventing them; safely." 
 
 He looked inquiringly at Alfie. 
 
 Dumain said, "I should think that is so." 
 
 "Oh, we ought to fight," said Alfie seriously. 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE I?I 
 
 "After coming all the way to this hole, the best 
 thing we can do is to> encourage them to go on 
 with their little circus and then waltz up and 
 clean them out and stop it forever." 
 
 "Certainly I should say that's the best plan 
 to pursue/' agreed Dumain. 
 
 Wezel ventured his first remark. "Naturally," 
 he said. 
 
 "I don't say that a little firing of rifles mightn't 
 be the surest way to scare them into decency for 
 a few years," said Houghteling; "but I don't 
 understand that my orders are to- proceed on that 
 basis; and so I do not intend to." 
 
 "Well, whatever lines you decide to proceed 
 on," replied Dumain, "I shall help you all I can. 
 All you will let me, that is; for I assure you that 
 I am here for no other purpose. Here is a letter 
 I have to Father Emanuele from my superiors." 
 He took it out and put it on the rough table, in 
 front of Houghteling. "I dare say you are going 
 there to see him yourself " 
 
 "Yes," said Stange promptly. 
 
 "I see no need of it," said Houghteling. "Of 
 course, I shall send word to the Penitentes them- 
 selves that we are here." 
 
 "Of course," said Dumain. 
 
 "I think we ought to see the old man," Stange 
 insisted in a joking tone. 
 
 "Then go and see him yourself," said Hough- 
 teling. 
 
172 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "What damn nonsense!" 
 
 "At all events/' began Dumain, "it will do no 
 harm for me to stir him up about it, too, and 
 get him to send them a warning message, which 
 may have more effect in making them desist than 
 yours. From what I hear they are a stubborn, 
 fool-hardy folk, and crafty. You can trust me 
 to do all I can, that is, if you can trust me." 
 
 He held out his hand to Stange who was next 
 him. Alfie jumped up with rattling sword and 
 gave it a good grasp. "You might as well shake 
 hands with a man, if he is bound to be on your 
 side," he said. 
 
 The Captain also* stood up. He took the letter, 
 which was unsealed, slowly opened it, and 
 though it was short, read it as slowly. When 
 he had given it back to the priest, he said: "If 
 you will go out now, I will join you in a minute. 
 Or I will go* " but the priest had gone. 
 
 Wezel, having finished his second glass, went 
 too, limping more than ever. Houghteling shut 
 the door and put his hand on Alfie's shoulder, 
 who stood in front of him. 
 
 "What do you think, Alf?" 
 
 "Why, he's all right," said Alfie. "What 
 harm can he do? I don't see what the devil they 
 sent him here for, but " 
 
 "That's the trouble," said Houghteling. "I 
 don't know what harm he can do, but I am sus- 
 picious of him. He may be up to something 
 
THE COMING OF STANCE 173 
 
 we have no idea of. However, I have got no 
 cause to arrest him; so I suppose the best I can 
 do is to let him be, but to keep an eye on him/* 
 
 "Yes, damn it all!" agreed Alfie. 
 
 "Shall I telegraph to his to the Archbishop?" 
 
 "To the Pope! Don't be a fool. You said 
 yourself he couldn't hurt." 
 
 "Yes; but he's a Jesuit. Shall I telegraph for 
 orders?" 
 
 "And sewer yourself. If you don't, this busi- 
 ness will do your work for you, and you'll be a 
 General yet, old man. Run it all yourself, and 
 I'll back you. Only I should like a little fight." 
 
 "I shouldn't," said Houghteling. "Come on." 
 
 Stange put his arm round his Captain's shoul- 
 der, for the moment they were in the dark hall- 
 way. 
 
 "I don't half like him; he insulted us both," 
 said Houghteling. 
 
 "Gad ! you're more touchy than if you'd been 
 a proper West Pointer yourself," retorted 
 Stange. 
 
 Houghteling walked up to the Jesuit and held 
 out his hand to him in the sight of all the soldiers 
 and the others. Dumain shook it very cordially. 
 
 "I think I must go over to the priest again 
 and find out what is going on," said he; "he 
 is certainly back by this time. We haven't any 
 time to lose, I suppose. Will you send notice to 
 the Penitentes this evening?" 
 
174 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "No, tomorrow morning will be time enough, 
 I should think," answered Houghteling with a 
 side glance at him. "I'll wait to hear your re- 
 port. When is San Rafael's day?" 
 
 "Next Monday, you know." 
 
 Houghteling nodded. 
 
 Stange, who had been watching a cloud of dust 
 approach along the distant road, announced, 
 "They are coming." 
 
 The others looked into the glare. 
 
 "You haven't so very many men," said Du- 
 main, as he started off. 
 
 "You ought to get the Saints to help you," 
 exclaimed Wezel, suddenly waking for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Dumain paused. "You mean the Mormons." 
 
 Then he walked away. 
 
XXI 
 
 FAY GRADY 
 
 THE same afternoon that the soldiers came 
 to Antonito there was acted in the kitch- 
 en of Father Emanuele's house a scene 
 sort that was becoming" too frequent there. 
 Father Emanuele's sister having finished a pious 
 and solitary prayer at her prie-dieu in her own 
 room, glided thinly down stairs, the priest's 
 house, like the hotel, and like no other house in 
 Antonito, has two stories, and on to the kitchen. 
 At the door she stopped abruptly to gaze in, in 
 horror; for all Sefiorita Tecla's emotions were 
 raised a few degrees above the normal. In the 
 middle of the large room, through which blew a 
 gentle and pleasant breeze, she saw, with hand 
 on the very crank o<f the horizontal barrel-churn, 
 and her plump figure in its shining green gown 
 nearly rolling off the chair, Fay Grady sound 
 asleep. 
 
 Emanuele, when he first came to the cure of 
 Antonito, had brought with him his blooming 
 young sister. Thin and wavy even then, there 
 were still to be found very old people with 
 enough justice to admit that she had been pretty 
 in a cold un-Spanish way, not the way admired 
 in the San Luis Valley. As the pious spinster 
 
 175 
 
176 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 lived on from year to year and yet to other years, 
 she had become, though without making a 
 friend, the ideal of etiquette in Antonito, and 
 even farther north than La Jara, and over east 
 into Las Animas County across the Sangre de 
 Cristo range. The worst one could say of her 
 was that she was stingy and cross. 
 
 During these decades she had spun among 
 her maids, to use a metaphor, for she never 
 spun, and her one maid had invariably been old 
 and ugly till, a few months before, having to 
 replace the third defunct duenna, she had 
 allowed her charity and her sense of the need of 
 propaganda to be so worked on that she at- 
 tached to her a young Mormon girl from the 
 neighboring saintly village of Manassa. It may 
 be imagined what confusion a lazy young 
 heathen Irish girl induced in Senorita Tecla's 
 conventionalized domestic economy. 
 
 When, therefore, she now saw Fay Grady doz- 
 ing at her task, Tecia fairly swam down the two 
 steps that led into the kitchen and dealt the lazy 
 one a good box on the ear. While she was 
 raising her prayer-book to strike again, Fay 
 jumped up, almost upsetting the churn and quite 
 upsetting the chair, which rattled loudly on the 
 wooden floor. 
 
 "That's right! Deafen the Father!" choked 
 Tecla. Having been bred in an Eastern convent 
 she spoke English better than Spanish. 
 
FAY GRADY 177 
 
 Fay gazed at her rather stupidly with her in- 
 tensely gray eyes. Then she drawled: "The 
 Father's gone to Conejos." 
 
 "Why are you neglecting your work?" de- 
 manded Tecla hotly. 
 
 "I don't know," said Fay. "Guess I must 'a' 
 been sleepy." 
 
 "Don't answer back. How often have I told 
 you? Go on with your churning; and then you 
 will have to read some to me. Hurry up; go 
 
 on." 
 
 Fay was slow of motion for eighteen. How- 
 ever, she got the creaking crank started round 
 again, while Tecla sat down opposite, one ringer 
 in her book, and listened grimly to the chunking 
 swish of the milk. Fay, for some time, with 
 vacant eyes, turned the monotonous handle. 
 Tecla opened her book and read one prayer. Then 
 she said so suddenly that the plump girl gave a 
 start: "Let me hear you say your letters, Fay 
 Grady." 
 
 Fay immediately began, "A, B. C," and speak- 
 ing very deliberately, four letters to each revo- 
 lution of the big churn, ended the alphabet with- 
 out any mistake. There was no complaint for 
 Tecla to make, except, "You'll have to learn 
 them faster. But I expect your mind is slow. 
 It's taken me a, good while teaching you that 
 little bit." 
 
 Fay was silent. At last she said, looking over 
 
178 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 from her task: "Can I go to Manassa this after- 
 noon?" 
 
 "Not till your work is done, I told you," 
 answered the spinster sharply. 
 
 Fay looked meek. She always looked meek 
 when she wasn't laughing. 
 
 "I suppose you want to go over to see your 
 aunt and your little sister." 
 
 "No," said guileless Fay; "I thought I'd go 
 to the Wivverses. I told Naphtali I'd come over 
 to-day. You said I could." 
 
 "Fay Grady, you ought to be ashamed to say 
 such a thing." 
 
 "It's so," said Fay simply, changing arms. 
 
 "I believe it would be gracious to lie about it 
 then. You can't marry that man. I won't let 
 you go till all your work is finished." 
 
 The Senorita had a watch. She referred to 
 it now. 
 
 "I don't know as I do want to be his second 
 wife," observed Fay; "but he's a elder. At least 
 he's the most of a elder in Manassa." 
 
 "Among heathen!" added the mistress. "It's 
 bad enough to be first wife to one of them. But 
 it's shameful and wicked to think of being 
 second. And I won't have it! You were put 
 here with me to get a good home and righteous 
 instruction. And I won't let you be running 
 off with such people. And besides it's illegal, 
 
FAY GRADY 179 
 
 "Well, I know other things," began Fay mon- 
 otonously, "that's just as illegal as that. An' 
 you like 'em. There's San Rafael/' 
 
 Tecla held in her anger till she was able to 
 speak steadily. 
 
 "You don't know anything about Christian 
 practices." 
 
 "No, I don't;" said Fay quite innocently and 
 a trifle bored, "and I don't want to. I'm a 
 Mormon," she added. 
 
 After this for some time there was silence, 
 except for the swashing of the milk and Tecla's 
 hard breathing. Then the churn creaked. 
 
 "Is the butter coming?" asked Tecla. 
 
 "I reckon it's come," answered Fay, opening 
 the churn. 
 
 She stretched her tired arm. 
 
 "Now, I'll have you read a little," began 
 Tecla, opening her book at random and handing 
 it to Fay. 
 
 The girl, taking it quietly, began to run one 
 fat finger along the lines of print. Occasionally 
 she would stop an instant, look harder at the 
 page, and call out, always on the same note, "A," 
 or "an," or "the," or "B. V. M." As these four 
 were the only words Fay could read, the recital, 
 after a page or two, became, even to the teacher, 
 tiresome. But she could not understand the 
 girl's own dislike of the proceeding. To her the 
 familiar prayers were very beautiful. 
 
l8o THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 After a while she said, "That will do now. 
 It's queer you don't learn faster." 
 
 Fay closed the book and jumped up really 
 quickly. 
 
 "You have on your green gown," proclaimed 
 the mistress. 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "I suppose that was because you intended go- 
 ing over to let that Morman man see you." 
 
 "My other one's tore," drawled Fay. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "I caught it on the pump." 
 
 "Then you must set to work and mend it," 
 said Tecla firmly. 
 
 "Now?" asked the girl disheartened. 
 
 "To be sure. Now. If you were so careless 
 to tear it." 
 
 "Then I can't go to Manassa." 
 
 "I don't see how you can," she nodded grimly. 
 
 Fay made no protest. 
 
 Just then came a knocking at the front door, 
 which could be plainly heard in the kitchen. It 
 was seldom any one used the front knocker. 
 Tecla told Fay to run and see who was there. 
 
 "I guess he's back to see the Father," said 
 Fay; "what will I say?" 
 
 "Well, you know he's not at home." 
 
 "No, I don't," said Fay, stopping. "I seen 
 him come in on his donkey a while ago." 
 
FAY GRADY l8l 
 
 "See if he's in the study, then; and let the 
 visitor in there. Why didn't you tell me?" 
 
 "I didn't think of it," drawled Fay; "I was 
 readin'." 
 
 Then she went out. 
 
 After a few minutes she came back. Tecla 
 was still sitting in the same chair. The girl 
 stopped at the foot of the steps and asked slowly, 
 "Will I get the dress?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. Get it right away and bring 
 it here." 
 
 Fay went ponderously up the three steps again 
 and disappeared. 
 
 It was not long before she returned again 
 with the torn skirt. Fay knew how to do some 
 things; and as she started her mending, so deftly 
 that her mistress at least, for once could not 
 criticise, Tecla began in an acridly pathetic 
 tone: "I hope you will soon be converted, Fay 
 Grady. Your soul is very hardened. Here you 
 live right under the Father's influence and 
 mine " 
 
 "I don't want to be converted," said Fay dis- 
 passionately; "I was converted once and I don't 
 expect I will be converted any more. I don't 
 want to be. I was eight years old when I was 
 converted." 
 
 "And to think that before that you were a 
 Christian!" 
 
 "The Saints is good enough," replied Fay 
 
1 82 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 quietly. Then she exclaimed, more suddenly 
 than was her wont: "This red thread's all used 
 up." 
 
 And before the Senorita had made any protest, 
 the girl had taken up her sun hat off the table, 
 and was out the open back door into the hot 
 sunshine. 
 
 Tecla was not inquisitive. Where she sat was 
 in easy call if her brother wished her for any- 
 thing. She opened her book and began to 
 read her prayers. 
 
XXII 
 
 PRIEST MEETS PRIEST 
 
 WHEN Dumain left the soldiers at the 
 hotel he went again down the few 
 hundred yards of dusty hot road 
 that led past the scattering- adobe houses of 
 Antonito to the church on the other side of the 
 street. The yellow church, with its rather well- 
 outlined, Mexican-looking fagade, faced directly 
 on the road. The broad clerical house next had 
 a garden in front. At one side the house abutted 
 on the church, but so far back that an inside door 
 from Emanuele's study, a front room, led imme- 
 diately into the sacristy behind the chancel. 
 
 Dumain crossed the sparse, but semi-tropical 
 garden to the front door, where it was cool in 
 the shade. Though the door was open, he 
 knocked with the great iron knocker. This time 
 he was answered after a minute or so by a fat girl 
 in shiny green, who pointed to a closed door and 
 said, "Go in there. 
 
 Dumain, opening the door for himself, went 
 into a large, half-dark, inhabited-looking room. 
 At one end a fat priest in a black gown lay back 
 resting in an easy chair. As Dumain came in, 
 he sat up straight. 
 
 "You will pardon me for not knocking," said 
 
184 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 the Jesuit; "but your servant directed me to 
 
 come in." 
 
 The fat priest stood up, and gazed at him in 
 stupid silence. 
 
 "This will explain my coming." 
 
 Dumain offered him the letter. Holding it 
 near his eyes, the priest read as follows, mum- 
 bling the words: 
 
 "To Father Emanuele Micro in Antonito, 
 
 "Our beloved Father, 
 
 "This will be brought to you by our confiden- 
 tial servant Father Joseph Dumain. 
 
 "In all things he is in our confidence and 
 merits yours. 
 
 "We will not deny that his errand has some 
 special connection with the parish of San Rafael. 
 
 "The Grace of God be with you. 
 
 "Ignatius Stanley, S. J." 
 
 The letter was neither dated nor headed. 
 
 After reading it, Father Emanuele rather aim- 
 lessly gave Dumain his large soft hand. He 
 seemed confused. 
 
 "I have been up to Conejos today to give 
 Extreme Unction," he began; "I rode such a 
 long way. It was very sad," he rambled on. 
 "Will you sit down? I have not been very 
 well." 
 
 Dumain sat opposite, and looked steadily at 
 the broad, sallow face. 
 
 At last Emanuele went on in his thick voice, 
 
PRIEST MEETS PRIEST 185 
 
 "It is something to do with San Rafael; with 
 the Stigmata. Will you have some wine?" 
 
 Getting up feebly he fetched from a large side- 
 board a decanter of red liquor and two small 
 glasses. 
 
 "Cherry-brandy," he announced absent- 
 mindedly, as he sat down again. 
 
 This time Dumain did not refuse to drink. 
 
 "It has something to do with San Rafael," the 
 host began again, choking over his brandy. 
 "Then you have come down to see it? You are 
 interested in it? It is a beautiful custom." 
 
 Dumain said nothing. 
 
 "I am glad you are interested in it. It has al- 
 ways appealed deeply to me. To receive the 
 Stigmata ," with an effort he rose and went 
 into a dark corner of the room. 
 
 Coming back, he continued: "To receive the 
 sacred Stigmata is not given to every one. She 
 received them." He showed a large photograph 
 of Carpaccio's painting in Dresden. "That is 
 Saint Catherine of Sienna, She received them; 
 all seven, the marks in the hands and in the feet 
 and the spear thrust and the marks on the brow. 
 But it is not granted to many." 
 
 "It was a miracle in her case," remarked Du- 
 main. 
 
 "Yes, it was a holy miracle with Saint Cath- 
 erine, and others have been vouchsafed it, too. 
 Saint Francis and others. It is a miracle here, 
 
186 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 too/' he added; "here at San Rafael. When they 
 do not die, it is a miracle." 
 
 Dumain looked unusually grave. 
 
 "It is a miracle, however, not smiled upon by 
 the Government in this country. You know the 
 conferring of these Stigmata is illegal." 
 
 Father Emanuele looked intently at him. He 
 was extracting two cigars from a pocket in the 
 skirt of his robe. One he offered to his visitor; 
 the other he lighted with a trembling match. 
 
 "It is a pity," he sighed, laying down his cigar 
 after one puff, "that everybody cannot sympa- 
 thize with us in our deeper feelings." 
 
 "It is a pity," agreed the Jesuit. 
 
 Emanuele shook his head sadly and con- 
 templatively. 
 
 Dumain began again: 
 
 "Some soldiers came down on the train with 
 me." 
 
 Emanuele considered before he asked: "Where 
 were they going? To Cripple Creek probably." 
 
 "No, they got off here," answered the other. 
 
 "Then About the Mormons?" 
 
 "No, I think about San Rafael." 
 
 Emanuele gazed at him helplessly. 
 
 "I told you the Government does not ap- 
 prove of the crucifixion." 
 
 The old man kept staring blankly at him. 
 
 "Where are the soldiers staying?" he asked. 
 
 "At the hotel" 
 
PRIEST MEETS PRIEST 187 
 
 The priest was silent a moment. 
 
 Then: "It is a liberal Government. It has 
 never interfered before," he said. 
 
 "It has threatened." 
 
 "I have heard of that," said Father Emanuele, 
 with the quiet air of a disinterested person. "I 
 suppose there are a great many." 
 
 "No, not very many. Two officers and only 
 twenty or thirty men. The whole movement 
 seems to me a little unusual in its plans." 
 
 "It must be very inconvenient for you," said 
 Emanuele; "you will come here and stay." 
 
 "I have a room at the hotel, quite good 
 enough. I thank you." 
 
 "You had better come and stay here." 
 
 "I wouldn't trouble you, Father." 
 
 "No, no," protested the Father, "I should like 
 to have you here. It's the usual way." 
 
 T 'To tell you the truth," said Dumain, "I was 
 sent down here expressly because it was known 
 the soldiers were coming; and it was thought 
 to be sure we had no way of telling 
 but it was thought," he said slowly, "that 
 they were coming to prevent the ceremony at 
 San Rafael. So I think it will be better for me 
 to stay at the hotel. They are not at all 
 offensive; and I may be able to discover some- 
 thing of their plans, which may be of use to you. 
 You know that we Jesuits pride ourselves on 
 being diplomats. And it may even be that I 
 
188 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 shall conceal my being a Jesuit and work myself 
 into their confidence. So you see, I had better 
 stay there for the present." 
 
 Father Emanuele made no protest. 
 
 "But," Dumain proceeded, "if it wouldn't be 
 any trouble to you to put a room at my dis- 
 posal, I might find occasion to use it. For you 
 know it may turn out that the expedition is 
 against the Mormons after all. We have heard 
 up north some rumors of polygamous mar- 
 riages." 
 
 "Yes," assented the priest, "our maid-servant 
 " He paused; Dumain waited. 
 
 "Our own servant, who belongs, sadly enough, 
 to the heathenish creed, I am ashamed to say, 
 the girl is engaged to marry a so-called Saint in 
 one of the neighboring towns, who already has 
 one wife." 
 
 "It is very dreadful!" acquiesced Dumain. 
 
 "Yes, very dreadful ! The young woman is of 
 good people from Georgia; Irish people, poor 
 but worthy, who were perverted when she was a 
 child. Fay, the family's name was Grady, 
 Fay is thinking of becoming the second wife, 
 concubine I call it, of this adulterous person in 
 Manassa." 
 
 "The soldiers may well have been sent, as you 
 say, for putting down such scandalous doings. 
 What do you say the man's name is?" 
 
 "His name," the priest considered. "Let me 
 
PRIEST MEETS PRIEST 189 
 
 see; I know His name. Oh, yes, Wivvers, 
 something Wivvers. It is some Biblical name, 
 the shocking creatures pretend to reverence 
 Holy Scripture. What a ridiculous pretence!" 
 
 But he couldn't remember the name. 
 
 After this he sat for some time in dazed silence, 
 smoking his cigar. At last Dumain said: "What 
 must we do, then, about the ceremony at San 
 Rafael? If the soldiers prove to have come for 
 that?" 
 
 "Oh, in that case it must be abandoned. Cer- 
 tainly. Yes," he said. "I will write to them to 
 abandon it myself." 
 
 "In that way you will frustrate the soldiers." 
 
 "Yes, and of course, no harm must come to 
 those pious folk up there. I should hate to have 
 one of them suffer." 
 
 "I can't help thinking," says Dumain, stand- 
 ing up, "that my superiors must have been mis- 
 taken. What you tell me makes me feel almost 
 sure that their coming here must be intended 
 against these law-breaking Mormons. This is 
 the nearest Christian town to Manassa, isn't it?" 
 
 It happens that it is; which Emanuele told 
 him. 
 
 "And the people in San Rafael have been so 
 happy and so engrossed in preparing for their 
 beautiful fete," the fat old priest went on in his 
 hoarse voice. "This is one of the few parishes 
 in all America where the Stigmata are ever be- 
 
THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 stowed. The noble young man who is to under- 
 take it has been fasting for weeks and continu- 
 ally carrying his cross tied on his back. But 
 many do that, and they have a good priest, 
 Father Maria de Jesus. He is impetuous, but so 
 noble. They are all impetuous, they are half- 
 breeds; yet more religious, I sometimes think, 
 than many of us of full blood." 
 
 Dumain listened with interest to this outpour- 
 ing from the heart. When it ended, he asked: 
 "How do the people hereabouts regard this fes- 
 tival at San Rafael? Do they sympathize? Are 
 the men for it with their souls?" 
 
 "Most of our men here in Antonito and gen- 
 erally all through the Valley, excepting the Mor- 
 mons and the people of San Rafael, are gone to 
 Cripple Creek." 
 
 "But there must be some left." 
 
 "Only enough to> work the ranches and get 
 in the crops; and not enough really for that. 
 They work very hard. But I fear they are most- 
 ly indifferent," he shook his head mournfully. 
 
 "Ah, well," exclaimed Dumain, "we can only 
 pray! I must go for the present," he added. 
 "You will show me the room?" 
 
 Father Emanuele moved painfully to the door 
 and called hoarsely for his sister. 
 
XXIII 
 STANCE'S ADVICE 
 
 SOON after Dumain had left the hotel to go 
 to the priest's house the second time, the 
 rest of the soldiers, under command of a 
 Sergeant, had arrived. Captain Houghteling, 
 taking the Sergeant and Peter Wezel with him, 
 had gone inside to see about their accommoda- 
 tions. Most of the men had also gone in. But 
 the three soldiers who had arrived before stayed 
 on the bench in the comfortable shade; and 
 Lieutenant Stange also remained tilting back in 
 a chair near them. 
 
 Suddenly he took his cigarette from his mouth, 
 let his chair down on four legs, and cried, "By 
 George, here comes a girl! and a white girl! 
 and a young girl! This is the first young, white 
 girl I've laid eyes on since I landed in this cursed 
 Valley! this morning," he added. 
 
 It was Fay in her green gown. 
 
 "Irish, I should say, by the color of her," re- 
 marked one of the soldiers. 
 
 "Come here, girl," Alfie called to her, "and 
 let me take your picture." 
 
 Fay Grady stood still in the middle of the 
 sandy road and shouted back, "I guess I don't 
 want to be took." 
 
 191 
 
192 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEI 
 
 Then she started on again. 
 
 "Well come on over, anyway," called Alfie; 
 and she turned and began to come. "I can't take 
 your picture, because I haven't got any kodak. 
 She's got red cheeks, too," he said aloud to him- 
 self, twisting his yellow mustache. 
 
 The three soldiers stared with all their six eyes 
 at Fay Grady. As she came near Stange, he 
 jumped up. 
 
 "What's your name, my girl?" he asked. 
 
 "My name's Fay Grady." 
 
 "I knew you weren't Spanish," said Alfie 
 promptly; and all the soldiers laughed. 
 
 They had got up too. 
 
 "Stand away from Miss Grady, all you men," 
 said Alfie. "Don't you know better than to 
 crowd a lady?" 
 
 The men went back and sat down again on the 
 bench, where they made remarks to one another 
 in a low tone. 
 
 "The Lieut.'s a bird with the girls," said one. 
 
 "He's had practice," concurred another 
 
 Then they listened to see what would come 
 next. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I escort you wherever you 
 are going?" Alfie was proposing. "Come on." 
 
 "I was going to buy some thread," drawled 
 Fay, without moving, and looking up at an open 
 window where Houghteling could be dimly seen. 
 
 "Don't look up there. Look at me. I'm the 
 
STANCE'S ADVICE 193 
 
 Captain, and I'm a sight better looking than 
 he is." 
 
 "Don't you believe him," said one of the sol- 
 diers under his breath; but Stange heard him. 
 
 "Shut up, you fellows," he cried sharply. 
 
 The men laughed a little: but they shut up. 
 
 "I was a-goin' to Manassa," says Fay; "but 
 I wasn't let." 
 
 "And where may Manassa be?" 
 
 "Over there," indicated Fay, pointing; "where 
 the Saints live." 
 
 "And what the hell, I mean, what are you 
 going over where the Saints live for?" 
 
 "I'm a Saint," said Fay Grady. 
 
 One of the men on the bench, the middle one, 
 giggled; and the other two punched him. 
 
 Just then, the Captain, putting his head out 
 the window above them, said: "Can you come 
 up here, Alfie?" 
 
 Stange looked up at him. 
 
 "Is it a command or a request?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, a request," replied Houghteling, 
 shortly. 
 
 "Then I shan't come up just yet." 
 
 The head quickly disappeared. 
 
 "He would 'a' run as quick as any of us," one 
 of the men observed to the others, "if he had 
 called it a command." 
 
 "Yes; but he's got privileges with the Cap- 
 tain," said one of the others, who was older. 
 
194 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "He understands discipline good enough/' 
 said the third. "I wisht I could 'a' went to West 
 Point myself." 
 
 "The Captain never did," remarked the other 
 young one; "he riz." 
 
 "And a damn sight better man, I say," held 
 the old one. 
 
 "Come off!" retorted the first speaker. "He's 
 got the head, maybe, but not the way with him." 
 
 Then they stopped. When one is healthy, a 
 conversation in asides is too wearing to keep up 
 long. 
 
 In the meanwhile Stange had asked Fay why 
 she mightn't go to Manassa, and she, had an- 
 swered that she "dassn't, 'cause" Miss Tecla 
 wouldn't let her; but that she was going any- 
 way. And on his inquiry why she wouldn't let 
 her, Fay had recounted with commendable ful- 
 ness, that her mistress was the Father's sister, 
 and wanted to> convert her, and didn't want her 
 to be Naphtali Wivvers's second wife. 
 
 "And you want to be, I suppose." 
 
 "I ain't sure. He's pretty rich, and he's a 
 elder. But I don't want to be nobody's second 
 wife." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "The first one thinks she's better than you 
 are." 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Stange. "I thought 
 the first one was dead." 
 
STANCE'S ADVICE 195 
 
 "Oh, no," said Fay; "but she's been joined to 
 him six years." 
 
 "Oh, I see, that's almost as good. But are 
 you in love with him?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," replied Fay, in her pro- 
 vokingly slow way. "I guess I am. I like him 
 well enough; anyhow, I don't like no one no 
 better." 
 
 "Don't you marry any man you aren't in love 
 with, or at least think you are. That's my 
 advice." 
 
 "I ain't in love with nobody," retorted Fay, in 
 her drawl. 
 
 "Well, you will be some day." 
 
 "I'd marry him quick enough if I could be his 
 first wife," she declared. 
 
 "You stick to that," said Alfie; "the last may 
 be first, you know; and perhaps you will be. I 
 shouldn't wonder if he'd trun the other one over 
 if you'd wait a while." He puffed a cigarette 
 he was lighting. "Six years already: he must 
 be pretty tired of her. Do they have divorces in 
 your church? But I advise you to get a hand- 
 some man. Is he What's his name? Is he 
 handsome?" 
 
 "His name is Wiwers," drawled Fay. 
 
 "Is he handsome?" 
 
 "I guess he's handsome enough for me," she 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, now, Miss Grady; you don't appreciate 
 
196 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 yourself." Fay was not used to being called 
 Miss Grady. "I have seen women in Denver, 
 and even farther away, who resorted to expedi- 
 ents," he gesticulated with his cigarette to 
 denote the expedients, "to have cheeks as red 
 as yours. Is he as handsome as I am?" 
 
 Fay looked at him as though she had not yet 
 thought of his appearance. 
 
 Stange threw out his chest and folded his arms 
 at "parade rest." 
 
 "No," she said, "I guess he ain't." 
 
 "Well, then, you'd better not marry him till 
 I'm gone, anyhow." 
 
 Fay looked at him again and said, "I don't see 
 what difference that makes." 
 
 Stange laughed. 
 
 "No," he agreed; "it doesn't." 
 
 Then he said into his yellow mustache, "But, 
 damn it! Maybe it will." 
 
 While they were talking together in the road, 
 Dumain, returning from the priest's house, 
 passed them and went into the hotel, without 
 their particularly noticing him. The three pri- 
 vates had also left their bench as the declining 
 sun began to shine into their eyes, and gone in. 
 
 Houghteling looking again out of his upper 
 window, called shortly, "Alfie, come up here." 
 
 "Good-bye," said Stange, starting at once. 
 "Be good. I'll see you again." 
 
STANCE'S ADVICE 197 
 
 Fay stood where she was till he entered the 
 door. Then she moved on to do her original 
 errand, and did not see his salute to her from the 
 doorway. 
 
XXIV 
 
 DIPLOMACY 
 
 STANCE sauntered into the upper room 
 with his cigarette. Houghteling and the 
 Sergeant were sitting by a table on which 
 lay a large, dirty map of Colorado. As soon as 
 Stange appeared, Dumain began, "He says he 
 must send word to them to give up the affair." 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed the Captain. 
 
 "Then you positively do not intend that they 
 shall go on with the crucifixion?" says Dumain. 
 
 "Oh, we must have a crucifixion," said Alfie. 
 "I've never seen one." 
 
 "I positively do not," answered Houghteling. 
 "I thought I had made that understood. Isn't 
 that what you told him?" 
 
 "To be sure," Dumain nodded. 
 
 "We're not sent here, as I understand my or- 
 ders, to clean out this village, unless, of course, 
 they're stubborn and we have to, but to stop 
 the crucifixion this year. Next year, they can 
 send again. It's a very small village; the cus- 
 tom will probably die out soon along with the 
 inhabitants. Besides, even if I felt at liberty 
 to try the other plan, I shouldn't. Suppose 
 there was some slip. How should we feel? 
 Think of this whole business! They lug round 
 heavy crosses for weeks first, then when the day 
 
 198 
 
DIPLOMACY 199 
 
 comes, if they're not dead, they nail each other 
 up on them." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "It must be disagreeable," A said, "to have 
 nails through the palms of your hands." 
 
 "Gentlemen," began Dumain, "I don't like the 
 idea personally any better than you do; person- 
 ally. But the sure way to stop it forever seems 
 to me to be to stop it in flagrante delictu. Of 
 course, before the victim is dead, if possible." 
 
 "Just after he's tacked up," glossed Alfie. 
 
 "Then you have a specific crime. That's what 
 the Archbishop thinks." 
 
 "The Archibishopjbe hanged!" cried Alfie. "I 
 want it to go on more than he does. I've never 
 seen a crucifixion, and I'm made to fight. But 
 I'm not going to let it go on, and don't you 
 think you are. Because it is my duty," he added, 
 thrusting his hand into his bosom like Napoleon. 
 
 "If you have told the priest our plans," began 
 Houghteling, "I don't see how we could make 
 them go on now, if we did want to." 
 
 "I might easily persuade him that I had been 
 mistaken about your plans," said Dumain. "He's 
 a simple old soul, half sick. He felt sure at first 
 you had come down against the Mormons." 
 
 Wezel, coming in at this instant with a kero- 
 sene lamp, exclaimed: "Why, the Mormons will 
 help us!" 
 
 "So you said before, old man," cried Stange. 
 
200 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I did not wish to upset him too much all at 
 once," Dumain pursued, glancing over his shoul- 
 der at Wezel and the lamp; "so 1 did not put 
 the meaning of your presence here so forcibly 
 as I, of course, shall when I go back, directly; 
 now that I know your plans are fixed. " 
 
 Houghteling gazed at him steadily with tight 
 shut mouth. 
 
 "He is strongly impressed," Dumain went on, 
 crossing his long thin legs and turning to lean 
 his arm on his chair back, "with the idea how 
 shocking and illegal their polygamous marriages 
 
 are." 
 
 "That's where he's just right," asserted Stange. 
 "I'm preventing one myself." 
 
 "It appears they are still common," Dumain 
 went on, not regarding the interruption. "His 
 own servant-girl is being enticed into one." 
 
 "That's the one," said Stange. 
 
 "And he would be easily convinced that you 
 had been sent to help the Government stamp 
 out this surreptitious practice." 
 
 "You ought to get the Saints to help you," 
 persisted Wezel. 
 
 "Why? Are they so opposed to the Peni- 
 tentes?" Dumain turned so quickly upon him 
 that he jumped. 
 
 "Opposed! I should say so," he said, blinking 
 his one good eye. "They hate all Catholics like 
 poison. You ought to get them." 
 
DIPLOMACY 201 
 
 "We don't need help/' said the Captain shortly. 
 
 "How many men are there at San Rafael?" 
 Dumain asked complaisantly, addressing Wezel. 
 "Not more than twenty, I'm told." 
 
 "Twenty?" repeated Wezel. "I guess not. 
 And some of them old men and boys. But they'd 
 fight like panthers." 
 
 "Well, what can they do against twenty sol- 
 diers with guns?" demanded Alfie; "and officers 
 with guns, too," touching a holster lying on the 
 table. 
 
 "I only thought if you had more," explained 
 Wezel, "you wouldn't kill so many. I suppose 
 you don't want to kill too many." 
 
 "I wish, " Houghteling began, impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 "No, not too many," said Alfie; "they're not 
 Indians." 
 
 "It wouldn't hurt to* kill a few," said Wezel; 
 "they're half-breeds." 
 
 "I wish you would all understand," cried 
 Houghteling, pounding on the table, "that we 
 won't kill one. We are going to occupy their 
 town, prevent their orgy, and go home." 
 
 He stopped, frowning. The Jesuit turned 
 down the darkly smoking lamp. 
 
 Finally he said placatingly: "I think we all do 
 understand, Captain. And since it is your de- 
 cision, I at least shall do all I can to support it." 
 
 Houghteling frowned fixedly at him. 
 
202 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Still, it seems to me that Mr. Wezel's idea 
 about the Mormons is excellent. Why not send 
 them word why you are here? Isn't it policy for 
 an armed force to be on good and well-defined 
 terms with all parties about?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" muttered Houghteling. 
 
 "I hope not, sir," smiled Dumain. "I can't 
 see the harm in being on good terms with every- 
 one. And it might be awkward if they got the 
 impression you had been sent on their account. 
 This servant is one of their sect, and news 
 travels so mysteriously." 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 "Mormons are peaceable cultivators, when let 
 alone," said Houghteling grimly. "I'll trust to 
 their not making any counter disturbance." 
 
 "Naphtali Wivvers ain't no sech peaceful cul- 
 tivator," wheezed Wezel. "He's the peaceful 
 kind that carries two guns in their belt. I'd a 
 sight rather have his gang on my side than on 
 the other." 
 
 "I've not the slightest fear of it," snapped 
 Houghteling, nervously fingering on the table. 
 
 Dumain considered: "Wivvers. Why, that's 
 the man that wants to marry the servant girl." 
 
 "You bet it is," cried Stange; "and marry her 
 he shall, and in return he'll be our ally. I'll 
 persuade her." 
 
 Houghteling jumped up angrily and went over 
 
DIPLOMACY 203 
 
 to the window where he stood with his back to 
 the others. 
 
 "But he has one wife," the Jesuit objected; 
 "we should be helping break God's laws and the 
 Government's." 
 
 "Damn the Government! Aren't we here 
 fighting for the Government? We're not sent to 
 suppress polygamy, whatever the old parson 
 thought." 
 
 "Alfie," said Houghteling, turning towards 
 them, "I hope you don't think you're talking 
 seriously. It's adultery." 
 
 "Would it persuade Wivvers?" considered 
 Dumain. 
 
 Ho'Ughteling gave him a black look under his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "If Naphtali needed persuadin' to worry the 
 Penitentes, I swear that would do it. But can 
 Lieutenant Stange persuade the girl? She's a 
 slow creature, but mighty sot." 
 
 ' "Don't you worry," Alfie reassured him. "She 
 and I are bosom friends. I told her not to marry 
 him and she said she wouldn't. Now I'll tell her 
 to, and I'm blest if she won't, just to break my 
 heart. As to it's being adultery, I say it's a plain 
 case of good, old-fashioned concubinage. And 
 there's warrant for that in the Bible, isn't there?" 
 he asked Dumain. 
 
 "I don't pretend to excuse it," gravely replied 
 Dumain. "My only warrant is that good may 
 
204 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 come of this evil. I am here to aid you, and 
 that's my first duty. Besides, the Mormons are 
 not Christians; and SO' their sin is at least not a 
 mock of religion like the fanatical celebration at 
 San Rafael." 
 
 "If it's as serious as all that," said Stange, 
 gravely, "I hope you don't blame the poor girl. 
 She won't be doing anything she thinks wrong." 
 
 "I have scarcely seen the girl yet," replied 
 Dumain. He stepped to> the door, and as he 
 opened it, said: "I shall probably see you down 
 stairs later, at supper, I hope." 
 
 He paused a moment. Houghteling said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Sure!" Alfie called after him as he shut the 
 door. 
 
 "Could you go 1 down and get as some sort of 
 supper?" Houghteling then asked Wezel. 
 
 As soon as the landlord had limped from the 
 vilely lighted room, Houghteling came from the 
 window towards the Sergeant and Stange, who 
 leaned back and thrust his hands into his pockets. 
 
 "I mistrust that man altogether," began the 
 Captain. "Why do you suppose he wants us to 
 make this Mormon treaty?" 
 
 "I guess he actually thinks we need some 
 help," Alfie surmised pleasantly. "Priests don't 
 know anything about " 
 
 "I feel positive he's up to some mischief," said 
 Houghteling. 
 
DIPLOMACY 205 
 
 "I agree with you, sir," said the Sergeant. 
 "He's too smooth spoken." 
 
 "The thing to do now is to send to the Mor- 
 mons and make the arrangement." 
 
 "What!" cried Alfie. "Play into his hand, if 
 he has got some little game?" 
 
 "What is his game? That's the trouble," com- 
 plained the Captain. "He seems to give away 
 all his schemes and yet you can't get on to them. 
 The only thing I can see in this is that he wants 
 to embroil us with these wild Saints; supposing 
 him a hypocrite and really trying to help the 
 San Rafaelers get their show through. It'd be 
 just the thing for them to have us with the 
 Mormons on our hands the day of the perform- 
 ance. So I'm going to send for this man 
 Wivvers and put it to him plainly, tell him we 
 don't expect to fight, but we'd like his moral 
 support if things miscarry and force us to. 
 That's simple." 
 
 "Simple as can be," chimed Alfie, beginning 
 to whistle. 
 
 "In the morning I'll send a message up to the 
 Penitente priest, too; and then I don't see how 
 this Jesuit gentleman, who insists on helping, 
 can help us do anything we don't want to do." 
 
 "Trun down for old Dumain," Alfie remarked. 
 
 "And as for this business about marrying the 
 girl to Wivvers," added Houghteling, "it's fool- 
 ishness, of course." 
 
206 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," replied Alfie. "I find 
 it rather diverting to try my hand at match- 
 making." 
 
 "Better drop it," said the other shortly, leav- 
 ing the room. 
 
 Alfie got up, laughing, and followed him. 
 
 . : 
 
XXV 
 
 A SAINT AMONG SAINTS 
 
 A THE priest's house, supper was very 
 early. This evening it took Fay Grady 
 so short a time to wash the dishes that 
 before it had been dark many minutes she had 
 finished. A full moon was already doing much 
 to make it undark again out of doors. Fay, who 
 was alone in the kitchen, took off her apron, and 
 smoothing her shining brown hair away from 
 the part with both hands, she advanced, with 
 a good deal of briskness for so solid a young 
 woman, up the three little steps and into the 
 front hall. 
 
 At the closed door of the study, where Tecla 
 had carried her sick brother's supper to him, 
 she paused to listen. All was silent within. Go- 
 ing up stairs for her hat, she stopped at Senorita 
 Tecla's room to look for her. Not having found 
 her there, she was nearly downstairs again, when 
 the study door opened and from it issued her 
 angular mistress, who opened her thin lips to 
 demand : "Where are you going at this time of 
 night, Fay Grady?" 
 
 "Home," said Fay with a note of forbearance; 
 "you said I could when I got everything done." 
 
 "I grieve to hear you call that heathen town 
 
 207 
 
208 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 home, when you have a good Catholic home 
 here," responded the mistress. "Is your dress 
 finished?" 
 
 "Yes'm," answered Fay, humble but firm. 
 
 "And the dishes?" 
 
 "The dishes, too," drawled Fay with a little 
 sigh, and taking a slow step towards the open 
 front door. 
 
 Tecla looked severely at her as she moved out. 
 
 "How are you going to get there?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Mr. Davis said he'd loan me his buggy, when 
 I was down to the store," said the girl deliber- 
 ately and disinterestedly. 
 
 "Well, mind you're home by " she con- 
 sulted her watch, "seven, " she calculated; 
 "half-past nine. Mind, that's an hour each way 
 and half an hour to stay. Tell your aunt to come 
 and see me; and you tell that Wivvers man," 
 she raised her thin voice as Fay withdrew, 
 "that he is a shameless creature, and never to 
 dare again to come near this house. Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "Yes," came the long-drawn answer from out 
 of doors. 
 
 Fay was out in the night. 
 
 As she passed the hotel, there was a light in 
 an upper room, where she could catch sight of 
 two or three men. She walked even slower than 
 usual; but no> one saw her. At the store, across 
 
A SAINT AMONG SAINTS 209 
 
 the railway tracks, she got the promised buggy. 
 A solitary ten-mile drive across the prairie land, 
 which was all one dull, tawny, sleepy color under 
 the monotonous moonlight, brought her to the 
 Mormon settlement. As she neared the hamlet 
 of Manassa, silent fields of alfalfa and wheat 
 seemed suddenly to spring up; and the narrow 
 irrigating ditches running between them would 
 light up and glimmer in the moonlight, and then 
 seem to go out again, as she drove past. 
 
 Finally came a wide street bounded by square 
 frame houses, unpainted and looking dead and 
 dreary in the half-light. Before one of these she 
 drew up her horse with a "whoa," and having 
 plumped a round iron weight on a strap down 
 near his feet, she went up on the porch and 
 opened the door. 
 
 It led into an ugly but fairly neat sitting-room, 
 with a dingy parlor-organ in one corner. A 
 weary-looking woman in a gray-figured calico 
 wrapper and holding a baby, rocked vigorously 
 in one chair; and in another a very large, bearded 
 man sat smoking a strong pipe and reading a 
 Bible. Neither got up. 
 
 "Good evening Fay," said the woman in a 
 gentle, tired voice, stopping her rocking for a 
 moment. 
 
 "Good evenin', Sarah," replied Fay. coughing 
 a little with the smoke. "How-de-do, Mr. 
 Wivvers." 
 
210 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Wivvers had already cried, "Hello, Fay!" in 
 a loud, rough voice, as soon as he saw her. 
 
 Taking his pipe out, he motioned with his 
 head peremptorily to his wife, who quietly rose. 
 Going over to the organ bench, she sat down 
 and commenced patting the baby on its back 
 with the palm of her hand. 
 
 "Sit down there," said Wivvers to Fay. 
 
 "I can't stay long," said Fay, sitting and 
 smoothing down her shiny green skirt with her 
 two hands. 
 
 "Why not, can't you?" asked Wivvers in his 
 coarse voice. 
 
 "I've got to go home, too, to see my sister," 
 Fay explained in her drawl; "and she told me to 
 get back there again at half-past nine." 
 
 "Humph!" grunted the man, puffing at his 
 pipe. He laid the Bible down on the floor beside 
 him. "Well, I hope," he said, "that afore long 
 you'll be stayin' in this house all the time." 
 
 His wife, shaking the baby about, and now 
 and then laying her thin cheek against its downy 
 hair, seemed to pay scant attention to the other 
 two. 
 
 "I don't know," Fay said calmly, "I ain't de- 
 cided yet." 
 
 "Well, I ain't hurryin' you," said the man; 
 "but it 'pears to me you've had loads of time to 
 decide by now. You won't do no better, I can 
 tell you that. Not in the Valley. I'm the rich- 
 
A SAINT AMONG SAINTS 211 
 
 est man hereabouts. Sarah'd like it, too." He 
 took his leg from over the arm of his chair to 
 turn half-way towards his wife. "You'd like to 
 have Fay here in the house, wouldn't you, 
 Sarah?" 
 
 Sarah looked up from the baby with tired eyes. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said. 
 
 "Well, I don't see no use killin' yourself hurry- 
 in'," remarked Fay. "I'm young yet. But I 
 reckon I will decide before long." 
 
 "The sooner, the better," said Wivvers. "I 
 ain't so awful young no more myself; and it 
 seems funny to me I've got this old without 
 being joined to only one woman. It's sayin* a 
 good deal for Sarah." 
 
 It was Sarah who broke the pause that fol- 
 lowed by asking, but as if she had very little 
 interest in the answer: "How did you come 
 over?" 
 
 Her guest answered promptly enough: "I 
 drove," she said. "Mr. Davis loaned me his 
 buggy." 
 
 Then there was another pause. It caused no 
 apparent embarrassment to any of the three; but 
 was finally ended by Fay, who, all the time rock- 
 ing herself with much deliberation, announced 
 dispassionately: "There's soldiers in Antonito." 
 
 "Soldiers!" repeated Wivvers, pricking up his 
 ears. "What fer? When did they come?" 
 
212 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "They come this afternoon on the train," said 
 Fay. "I don't know what they come for." 
 
 "Blamed if I do!" he said. "We don't have 
 no strikes down here." 
 
 "I don't know," repeated Fay, as if to clear 
 herself from any imputation. 
 
 "Where are they stayin'?" asked Sarah, who 
 had stopped shaking about the baby, and now 
 eyed her husband anxiously. 
 
 "At Wezel's." 
 
 "How many?" Wivvers demanded. 
 
 "I don't know," said Fay, with a shade of 
 impatience. "I ain't counted 'em. I didn't see 
 but four or five; but I reckon there's more." 
 
 "They ain't here for no good, I'll bet," said 
 Wivvers. "Some trouble on hand for some one." 
 
 "I don't know," said Fay again in a bored 
 tone, and getting up. "Well, good-night, Sarah; 
 good-night, Mr. Wivvers; good-night, baby." 
 
 "Come and see his tooth," tempted the moth- 
 er, standing up. 
 
 "You might stay a little while," growled 
 Wivvers, also getting up. "Or tell me more 
 about them soldiers. I got a mind to go over 
 with you and see. 'Spose Davis'd let me have 
 the buggy to come back?" 
 
 "No," said Fay. "I don't. I know he would- 
 n't." 
 
 "My horse is kinder tired," considered Wiv- 
 vers. 
 
A SAINT AMONG SAINTS 213 
 
 "Oh, don't go, Naphtali," his wife pleaded. 
 "Wait till morninV 
 
 "Well, good-night," said Fay again; and went 
 out. 
 
XXVI 
 
 DANGEROUS ADVICE 
 
 WHEN Houghteling, Stange, and the 
 Sergeant went downstairs after hav- 
 ing finished their council as to the 
 Mormons, they found Dumain sitting alone in 
 the bar or dining-room, writing. There was a 
 tremendous smell of frying from a room beyond, 
 and Wezel limped bustlingly in and out with 
 piles of plates and handfuls of rattling forks and 
 knives. 
 
 Dumain, pushing his papers together as they 
 came in, looked up expectantly and pleasantly. 
 
 "We have decided to adopt your plan and 
 write to the Mormons," said Houghteling. 
 
 "Good!" cried Dumain, rising. "I was just 
 writing to my superior, but I'll add that satis- 
 factory piece of news," and he bent over to 
 scribble a few more words. 
 
 With a half-sneer Houghteling turned away 
 and went into the kitchen. Stange was to write 
 the letter for him. 
 
 Dumain, standing by the table where Stange 
 leaned over the paper, biting his yellow mus- 
 tache, looked curiously at him, and said: "Do 
 you always write with your left " 
 
 "Bless you, no. I can do quite as well with 
 
 214 
 
DANGEROUS ADVICE 215 
 
 my right; result of being rapped over the 
 knuckles when I didn't. But it looks different. 
 See!'* He began to copy his letter with his 
 other hand. "It's convenient sometimes." 
 
 When Houghteling came hurrying back, 
 Stange pushed aside the papers to give him a 
 place to sign. Dumain craftily slipped the copy 
 among his own papers as he gathered them up 
 off the table. 
 
 "They'll think you're dead swell/' laughed 
 Stange to his Captain, "having a secretary; and 
 if they can read, they'll probably notice how 
 much better the secretary writes." 
 
 The delegation, consisting of Wezel as guide, 
 the Sergeant, and two men, rode off on two 
 horses owned by Wezel, and two more hired by 
 him in the village. 
 
 It was about an hour after they had gone that 
 Fay Grady, having left her borrowed buggy at 
 its owner's, came walking by the hotel, where 
 Houghteling, Stange, and Dumain were sitting 
 on the bench by the door, all smoking. Most of 
 the soldiers were talking noisily inside the house. 
 The guard was to be seen coming round the cor- 
 ner in the moonlight. The night was very warm. 
 
 After the girl had passed, Alfie Stange, stand- 
 ing up and stretching, in the shadow where they 
 were, said, gaping, "I'm going for a little stroll." 
 
 "The Lord go with you," said Houghteling. 
 
216 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I can't see why any one wants to exercise this 
 hot night." 
 
 "I thought I saw my lady-friend," Alfie an- 
 swered back from the road. "I must tell her 
 about our matrimonial plans for her." 
 
 "Don't you be rash, young man," Houghtel- 
 ing called after him. 
 
 "I think I shall go over to Emanuele again," 
 announced Dumain, rising. "I believe he wants 
 me to do some work for him to-morrow. He 
 is so sick, you know, and I will get him to send 
 over his maid then with a message." 
 
 Alfie, hearing him coming, walked faster. 
 When he reached the priest's house, he entered 
 the garden and lurked in the shadow of some 
 trees near the door, till Dumam came in and 
 knocked as before. As soon as Stange was 
 aware that the person who came to answer was 
 not Fay, he hurried to the side of the house. 
 There was a fence as high as his head. He pulled 
 himself up and vaulted over. With an instinc- 
 tive quickness he ran directly to the kitchen win- 
 dow, which was open. 
 
 "Fay," he called in a stage whisper. 
 
 Fay was sitting languid where Sefiorita Tecla 
 had left her an instant before, when she broke off 
 a catechism about her visit to go to the front 
 door. She started a little at the sound and 
 turned towards him, 
 
DANGEROUS ADVICE 217 
 
 "Come out," he said, and dodged back as the 
 inside door opened. 
 
 Waiting in the dark, he heard Tecla say: "Yes, 
 it was him. But he isn't going to stay to-night. 
 Where are you going?" 
 
 "Out to the well," Fay answered in her slow 
 voice. 
 
 "Why couldn't you get a drink when you came 
 in? You were nearly late, anyway. You'd bet- 
 ter take a pitcher," in Tecla's sharp tones. 
 
 "I reckon there's a dipper at the well," drawled 
 Fay. 
 
 Then he heard the door open and saw Fay 
 come out in the broad ray of light. Fay was 
 not pretty; but her plumpness and her fresh 
 color looked well in the half-darkness of moon- 
 light. Stange waited until they were a few yards 
 from the house, and then touching her gently 
 on the arm, said in a low tone: "You remember 
 I told you this afternoon not to marry Wivvers; 
 well, now I want you to." 
 
 "Why?" asked Fay softly. 
 
 "Why? I don't know. I think he's a good 
 sort of chap. Never mind why. Say you will 
 because I want you to. Won't you?" 
 
 They had come to the artesian well, whose 
 white water seemed to foam up out of the black 
 ground; they could hear it gurgling away 
 through a trough. Fay stooped and got the 
 dipper from somewhere; as she rose she said, 
 
218 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I ain't sure. I ain't decided yet whether I want 
 to be second wife." 
 
 Then she drank. 
 
 Stange jerked one fist in quick impatience. 
 
 But gently enough he said, "We want you to. 
 I want you to. Won't you?" 
 
 Fay was offering him the refilled dipper. 
 
 "We are going " he began, making a ges- 
 ture to push it away. 
 
 The water spilled out with a swish over Fay's 
 skirt, and before he had time to finish his sen- 
 tence, he heard Tecla's voice calling through 
 the darkness, "Fay Grady! Fay Grady!" 
 
 "All right!" called Fay by his side. 
 
 He could see a figure, black in the open door- 
 way; but he knew she couldn't see them. 
 
 "Come to the hotel at seven in the morning, 
 will you?" 
 
 Fay nodded. 
 
 As she started back to the house, with a sud- 
 den impulse he caught her in his arms and kissed 
 her. 
 
 "Don't," she said, without struggling. 
 
 "Always two," he breathed, kissing her again; 
 "to make sure of more." 
 
 Then he let her go. 
 
 "Come out again tonight, will you?" he asked. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't know. But come. Won't you, Fay?" 
 
 "I don't believe I will," she said deliberately. 
 
DANGEROUS ADVICE 219 
 
 "Can't you get out without her knowing it?" 
 
 "I guess I could; through the church." 
 
 "Well, won't you?" 
 
 Just then Tecla called again, "Fay Grady, are 
 you coming?" 
 
 "I don't see no reason to come out," said Fay 
 to Stange, and began to run ponderously to the 
 house. 
 
 Stange walked slowly in the same direction, till 
 he saw the door close and shut in the light. Then 
 he stopped still. He snapped his fingers angrily. 
 "Damn it!" he said fiercely. 
 
 When Fay got inside the dimly lighted kit- 
 chen, she explained, stopping quite short, "I 
 got my dress wet out there." 
 
 "I thought you were lost, you were so slow. 
 You must be careful." Tecla had a worried look 
 in her sharp eyes. "Did you know there were 
 soldiers in town?" 
 
 Fay giggled a very little. 
 
 "Did you know it?" demanded Tecla sharply. 
 
 "I guess they won't hurt me," said Fay with 
 a grave face. 
 
 "Hurt you!" Tecla repeated. "Indeed you 
 shan't give them a chance. I don't want you to 
 leave the place again while they're here, without 
 my permission. Do you understand?" 
 
 The girl nodded. 
 
 A slow, tremulous voice was heard calling 
 Fay. 
 
220 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Run to the Father," directed the Senorita. 
 
 Fay slowly proceeded into the Father's large 
 study. He was alone, but was just reseating him- 
 self. 
 
 "You are to go to the hotel to-morrow at 
 seven,'' he said, coughing. 
 
 "Yes," said Fay promptly. "I know." 
 
 "To see if there is any message for me from 
 Mr. Dumain." 
 
 "Is that his name?" asked Fay. 
 
 "Yes, the gentleman you let in this afternoon." 
 He began to cough again. 
 
 Stange, after Fay had left him, soon reached 
 the road again, where he encountered Dumain, 
 also returning to the hotel. 
 
 "I've just been consulting Miss Grady," began 
 Stange indefinitely but gaily. "I can't see that 
 it hurts, although Dan is so opposed to it." 
 
 "What does she say?" asked Dumain guard- 
 edly. 
 
 "Oh, I told her to come to the hotel in the 
 morning," said Alfie. "From what I've heard 
 of Wivvers, I rather misdoubt he may be hard 
 to deal with; and I should think it would make 
 it easier if he finds his sweetheart on our side." 
 
 "I sho-uld think it might," returned Dumain, 
 dry and non-committal. 
 
 When the embassy to Manassa returned there 
 
DANGEROUS ADVICE 221 
 
 was no one to be seen at the hotel, except the 
 guard on post and the Corporal of the guard, 
 who looked out of the door, holding a lantern, 
 as they were challenged. While they were being 
 recognized, Houghteling, putting his head out of 
 a second-story window, asked in a lowered 
 voice, "Is he coming?" 
 
 "Yes, it's all right," answered the Sergeant. 
 "He was almost on the point of coming on his 
 own hook." 
 
 "Naturally," began Wezel. 
 
 "Go to bed, all of you," interrupted the voice 
 from above, and the head went inside. 
 
 That night before going to bed, Dumain had 
 written a report to his superiors, from which the 
 following is an extract : 
 
 "The parish priest here, though I have almost 
 persuaded him the soldiers have no intention 
 against San Rafael, is yet, in his hypochondria, 
 so cautious that I fear he may at any time send 
 the Penitentes a warning to give up the cere- 
 mony. To prevent this and to insure carrying 
 out our plan of giving them a severe and memor- 
 able punishment, I shall resort to extreme meas- 
 ures if I must. Fortunately, he is too sick to go 
 to them himself. I am also having some difficulty 
 in arranging, against their wills, the plans of 
 the soldiers. Their Captain is a very suspicious, 
 stubborn young man; but I think I have man- 
 
222 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 aged to keep him interested and occupied here 
 for a< day or two, so that he will not arrive at 
 S. R. before time. I am sorry to say that he 
 mistrusts me; but the ruses I am thereby forced 
 to, serve to keep my mind employed and away 
 from the wretched creatures we are forced for 
 their good to chastise. I thank God that, though 
 I use the soldiers to scourge them with, I myself 
 need take no active physical part in the punish- 
 ment. It is enough to furnish brains for all the 
 short-sighted people blindly made to carry out 
 my purposes, which they cannot see now are 
 their own as well." 
 
XXVII 
 
 A THREAT AND A PLEA 
 
 SEVERAL weeks had passed since Paez had 
 gone forth under his cross. Sometimes he 
 was seen near the settlement, a motion- 
 less or at least very slowly moving dark object. 
 The priest went out quietly every morning to 
 feed him; but as yet no one else had spoken to 
 him or even inquired about him. 
 
 Life in San Rafael dragged as evenly as ever. 
 Everyone fasted; and it rained every afternoon. 
 It was suffocatingly, unendurably hot. Even 
 the Penitentes, who are used to heat, stayed 
 generally in the shade at midday. 
 
 Dolores was still with Panchita. Sometimes 
 she would sew in the low dark room, where it 
 was stuffy, but not comparatively hot; oftener 
 she would sit in the hotter but airier porch, where 
 Pasco stirred his tubs. He didn't stir very vig- 
 orously, for he had spells of merely holding the 
 stick upright in the middle of his dye-stuff to 
 gaze abstractedly out over the steaming Valley 
 before him at the blue mirage and the hills. 
 When Dolores was there he stared mostly at her; 
 but as she very seldom spoke to him, he spoke 
 as little to her. Sometimes she would look up 
 to smile at him over her stint. Often after thus 
 
 223 
 
224 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 smiling, she would sigh discontentedly; or would 
 purse her lips and shake her hair back from her 
 face, and move nervously the bare foot she was 
 not sitting on. 
 
 One evening they were sitting thus in the 
 porch, Dolores with her hands placidly folded 
 over her sewing, and her head against the wall, 
 Pasco nodding above his dye-tub, gradually let- 
 ting the stick slip from his hands. The quivering 
 heat which veils the San Luis Valley all day, 
 faded out as the twilight slowly gathered; and 
 the far-away mountains moved nearer as they 
 became more clear-cut in their outlines and more 
 purple on their slopes. The huge sturdy mass of 
 Blanca, dominating the others, grew soft and 
 smoky, as the blue lake of mirage which bathes 
 his foot all the hot day, vapored away into dark- 
 ness. One star overhead pricked through the 
 sombering sky, and gradually shone forth into 
 brave yellowness. 
 
 As Dolores looked, a pale thin halo of grayish 
 light began to suffuse the sky over one end of 
 the long crest of Blanca. Rather fast this 
 warmed and deepened and grew in intensity, till 
 it became such a radiant soft brightness that any 
 one might know there was something there be- 
 hind, and all the dusky silent Valley waited in 
 suspense for what was going to happen. Sud- 
 denly a thin sliver of gold appeared; and then 
 came the ever fresh miracle of the moon push- 
 
A THREAT AND A PLEA 225 
 
 ing herself up over the rim of the world into the 
 heavens; till at last she slipped up clear of the 
 hills and hung there, pausing a moment, a 
 round, full, red, sultry, swollen moon, with her 
 foolish face indistinct and ghastly. 
 
 After this the light quickly changed. Twilight 
 with its shades became moonlight with its shad- 
 ows. Dolores got up; and as she moved, Pasco 
 waked with a start. Though he absorbedly 
 watched her leave the porch, he made no mo- 
 tion. 
 
 Out there in the open it was as close and al- 
 most as warm as by day. The stored-up heat rose 
 from the warm ground, no longer steaming to 
 the eye, but quite perceptible to the feeling. But 
 by midnight it would be chilly. 
 
 A dark figure moving through the oblique 
 moonlight, proved to be, as Dolores scrutinized 
 it, Fanita, going apparently from her own house 
 to that of Oestocris. She was coming directly 
 towards Dolores. Though she had always 
 avoided this girl painfully, Dolores now halted, 
 and with one hand on her hip, waited in silence ' 
 for her. The other approached evenly; till all 
 at once, seeing who it was that stood in wait for 
 her, she hesitated. Then she started on again 
 and came along in the thin wavering light. She 
 changed her course the least point, however; and 
 Dolores, making a step or two forward, antici- 
 pated her. 
 
226 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Wait a minute, girl," Dolores said; "I want 
 to speak to you. I never have before this, and 
 I think I won't again; but I do now." 
 
 Fanita drew away to one side, and hurried on. 
 But Dolores put forth one hand to seize her 
 bare arm, and held her. 
 
 "Wait, won't you, when I speak to you? You 
 are not very obliging, Coward! I am not go- 
 ing to say much; just to tell you what I think of 
 you." 
 
 "Let me go," commanded Fanita, in a hoarse 
 tone, trying to pull away. 
 
 Dolores holding her tight, pulled narder, jerk- 
 ing the other girl toward her. "You'll wait, 
 while I tell you to," she said coldly. 
 
 Fanita was trembling. 
 
 "I suppose you can't help being a Penitente," 
 Dolores began again, keeping her voice low; 
 "God made you one. But some of the Peni- 
 tentes are decent people, Panchita is, and 
 Pasco, and Paez. But you have no heart, you 
 and that old woman, you are like coyotes, you 
 two, sneaking around in the dark to kill people. 
 Only you are worse/ you pretend you think 
 God likes it. She wants her own son to be cruci- 
 fied, and you are worse than she is. It's just 
 because you are jealous of me." 
 
 Fanita, who was regaining her composure, 
 made an inarticulate sound of disdain. 
 
 "You know it is," pursued Dolores hotly, "you 
 
A THREAT AND A PLEA 227 
 
 tried to make my old lover take me away, so 
 that I could not have Paez. You'd rather have 
 him die than me to have him; because he never 
 would love you,- he'd rather die himself than 
 have you." 
 
 "It's a lie," said Fanita between her teeth. 
 
 "It's not a lie;" Dolores raised her voice. 
 
 "He wanted to be the Christ, for the love of 
 God. All the men want to." 
 
 "He did not want to," Dolores cried bitterly. 
 "Do you think God dealt out those cards? No, 
 I tell you, He didn't. It's gambling, it's low- 
 down dirty gambling." 
 
 "I prayed to the Saints,- the Saints did it," 
 insisted Fanita. 
 
 Dolores laughed in wrath. "The Saints listen 
 to you!" 
 
 "They did listen to me. I told him beforehand 
 you see! They did choose him, I asked 
 them to." 
 
 "Then it's your fault," cried Dolores trembling, 
 "you heartless Indian! You you devil! I pray 
 God to punish you I pray God " she let go of 
 Fanita's arms and clasped her hands as in prayer. 
 
 There was silence for an instant. Then Fanita 
 burst out mockingly: "You are the one who's 
 jealous, jealous of God. He belongs to- Him 
 now. You'll never get him." 
 
 Dolores turned on her in a fury. "I will get 
 him! I'll get him from you and that old panther, 
 
228 THE PENITENT OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Fanita, shrinking again, drew away; "or 
 you'll be sorry for it," concluded Dolores almost 
 calmly. 
 
 A shrill voice rang out from one of the dark 
 houses on the edge of the moonlight, "Fanita!" 
 
 The girl with alacrity turned and ran from 
 Dolores. 
 
 Left alone, Dolores stood still, panting and 
 quivering. She made one or two moves in this 
 direction and that, till finally, becoming calmer, 
 she walked straight over to the road and studied 
 it, up and down. As usual there was no living 
 thing on its dusty stretches. Crossing to the 
 other side, she searched the waste of fields as well 
 as she could under the deceptive distances of the 
 moonshine. Then she slowly went down the road 
 as far as the river; there she crossed the little 
 grass-plot and peered about through the trees. 
 At times she paused to hearken; but there was 
 no other sound than the welling of the river and 
 what rustling of the leaves she herself occasioned 
 in pushing through. 
 
 When she left the copse she skirted up be- 
 hind the houses of the hamlet, stopping to ex- 
 plore the shadowy spaces between. But the only 
 person she saw was a little girl, who toiled past 
 unconsciously near her with a heavy water- 
 bucket. After thus prowling along until she 
 reached the end of the settlement, she struck 
 off into the uplying country towards New Mex- 
 
A THREAT AND A PLEA 229 
 
 ico, which is only a mile or two away. Here 
 grow much low sage-bush and cactus; and in 
 order not to run thorns into her bare feet, she 
 was fain to pick her way nicely among the crowd 
 of black shadows that spotted the ground. 
 
 As she went thus cautiously up under the 
 vague moonlight, she seemed to be aware, some- 
 where on the deceptive face of the rolling prairie, 
 of some dark thing moving. She doubled her 
 pace. It was yet a long monotonous way be- 
 fore she was sure. But then, abruptly, the thing 
 resolved itself and stood out bold in the weird 
 light as the dragging form of Paez with his cross. 
 
 Dolores walked slowly to him. Bent down 
 under his burden, though he crouched facing 
 her, yet he gave no sign of seeing her, till she 
 not only stood before him, but said, with a tre- 
 mor in her voice: "Paez, I have came out here 
 to see you." 
 
 She marked in the gray moonlight how hollow 
 and black his eyes were. 
 
 "Lola!" he said in a hoarse voice, so rough 
 and weak that he made another attempt and 
 again said, "Lola!" 
 
 "Sit down," said the girl tenderly; "here!" 
 and she stepped to a spot free from brush. "I 
 want to talk to you." 
 
 Paez crawled after her. He sank down into a 
 strange, cramped posture, his body half under 
 the great cross, which rested by one arm on the 
 
230 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 ground, and with one of his own arms twisted 
 back over it. 
 
 Dolores looked at him compassionately. 
 
 "Is that the best way you can sit?" she asked. 
 
 For answer he wriggled about, and in trying 
 to get more comfortable and to keep the heavy 
 cross from crushing him down, he caused it to 
 keel over backwards, jerking him roughly with it, 
 so that he lay flat upon it, his face up to the sky. 
 
 Dolores gave a little cry as he rolled over. 
 
 "Oh! are you hurt?" she kneeled and leaned 
 over him. 
 
 "No," he answered in a weak dry voice; "it's 
 best this way. I generally lie this way. Only," 
 he added, moving his head, "it's hard and it hurts 
 
 me." 
 
 The girl gently lifted his head, and gathering 
 as much of his long matted hair as she could, 
 pushed it under so as to form a cushion. 
 
 "There, is that better?" she asked, smoothing 
 his hair back from his eyes and letting her 
 moist palm lie a moment on his hot dry fore- 
 head. 
 
 Paez gave a sigh of comfort. 
 
 "Yes," he said huskily; and after clearing his 
 throat; "talk to me now." 
 
 "I'm going away, dear," said Dolores all at 
 once, with a break in her voice. 
 
 "No, no, Lola," he answered calmly but firmly. 
 "Don't go." 
 
A THREAT AND A PLEA 231 
 
 "Come with me," she besought, taking up his 
 hand, which lay near hers on the sand. "Come 
 with me, Paez. Why do I want to stay here 
 now, with you like this? Come! You have 
 fever," she said, squeezing his hot hand, and then 
 beginning to stroke it. "I don't want them to 
 kill you. Don't let them." 
 
 For a while he said nothing. 
 
 Then after a husky effort, and once more clear- 
 ing his throat, he answered: "No, I can't go 
 
 now." 
 
 "Yes," implored the girl. 
 
 He turned his head till it lay on the side, look- 
 ing at her. 
 
 "I love you," she cried passionately. 
 
 Again a pause; and again he murmured: "No, 
 no, Lola. I can't go now." 
 
 "They'll kill you," repeated Dolores. 
 
 "Then I shall get rid of all this pain;" his 
 voice was smoother. 
 
 "So you will if you come with me," said Do- 
 lores, despairingly. 
 
 He only shook his head from side to side on 
 the cross. 
 
 "No, it's too late," he said. 
 
 Dolores sighed; nearly a groan. 
 
 For some time she sat gazing at him, her 
 bosom rising with her heavy breathing. 
 
 At last she said: "You were afraid before." 
 
232 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I know," answered Paez; "but that was be- 
 fore." 
 
 "Before what?" she asked curiously. 
 
 In the moonlight she could see a smile spread 
 over his face. Then, as he spoke, she noticed 
 how white his teeth looked. "Before I saw 
 Him," he answered contentedly. 
 
 "Saw who?" asked Dolores, glancing over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "The Infant Jesus," he responded tenderly. 
 "He has been coming to me out here at night, 
 when everything is still, carrying His own little 
 cross. Only He is all in white and blue. And 
 He says things to me." 
 
 "What does He say?" Dolores asked, sighing 
 deeply. 
 
 "All sorts of things," Paez went on glibly; and 
 she could see that his sunken eyes looked 
 through and beyond her. "Sometimes He talks 
 Latin like Father Chucho, and then I don't un- 
 derstand Him. But He has a nice soft voice 
 like like ," he was considering; "like Fa- 
 nita," he decided. 
 
 His fixed eyes did not see the sudden fierce 
 look that Dolores gave him. 
 
 "Once He came while it rained," continued 
 Paez; "but generally it's at night, when there's 
 a moon. He says, Taez, I will take care of you 
 now, and so will My Virgin Mother and San 
 Rafael and Our Lady of Santa Fe and Our Lady 
 
A THREAT AND A PLEA 233 
 
 of Sorrows and San Francisco; and We will all 
 come to you on the cross; and I will take you 
 Myself' " 
 
 Dolores jumped up; but the monotonous voice 
 went on unheeding. She looked at him fixedly 
 a moment. Then, "Paez! Paez!" she said 
 sharply; but he ran on and on. By degrees his 
 voice grew more and more faint, till finally he 
 was only mumbling to himself. 
 
 Dolores frowning, pushed his hand impatiently 
 with her bare foot. Pulling it away, he broke off 
 and began much louder, praying, "O Little In- 
 fant Jesus, help me " 
 
 Dolores made the sign of the cross fervently 
 and didn't kick him again. He lay quiet; but 
 she could see by their shining that his eyes were 
 open. She dropped to her knees again. Putting 
 her hand on the coarse cloth that covered his 
 breast, she shook him gently. 
 
 "Paez, I am going away." 
 
 Finally he answered, "No, don't go." 
 
 "Yes/' she fiercely insisted; "I am going back 
 to find Cristobal. He loves me." 
 
 Again the pause. 
 
 Then the reply, mechanically, "I love you." 
 
 She bent her head down till she could feel his 
 faint breath. 
 
 "Then you will come with me,!' she said. 
 
 "No, no, Lola, not now, " 
 
234 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Dolores jumped up. She looked down on him 
 an instant, wrathfully. Then she turned her 
 back on him and flung away in her proud walk, 
 back towards San Rafael, towards the low-hang- 
 ing golden moon. 
 
XXVIII 
 
 THE BRAYING OF AN ASS 
 
 HOT as the night still was, before she had 
 gone far, Dolores was running. Even as 
 she ran, she kept discreetly in what little 
 shadow the houses afforded ; and coming round 
 the backs of them, she slackened her pace as 
 she reached Panchita's, where, having noiselessly 
 skirted the adobe walls, she came into the porch. 
 Listening intently, she heard the sound that told 
 her the housewife was abed and asleep. But it 
 so happened that Pasco, having dozed again 
 over his buckets, was still sitting heaped up be- 
 hind them. A sudden snort disclosed him to 
 Dolores. 
 
 With a forefinger on her lower lip, she stood 
 and waited. She turned one ear to him,; but he 
 was now quiet. 
 
 After a long moment's deliberation she slipped 
 past him, and through the large dark room, and 
 feeling her way by the walls, into her own little 
 room. She very soon had rummaged among her 
 things, and in the moonlight was examining her 
 little white pistol. Holding it close to her eyes, 
 she saw that it was loaded and in working order; 
 then, frowning over her task, she carefully took 
 the small cartridges out one by one, and putting 
 
 235 
 
236 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 them on the floor in the patch of brightness, 
 all but one which she held in her teeth, she 
 stretched forth her bent arm and hand and drew 
 the trigger. Several times she repeated this; and 
 at the click that rang sharp and clear in the si- 
 lence, she shook her head. 
 
 Then she replaced the cartridges in the pistol, 
 and put it into her bosom. Again she hesi- 
 tated, frowning and moistening her lips. The 
 result of her hesitation was that she soon drew 
 out the little shining weapon from her bosom; 
 and having stuffed it back into her collapsed 
 bundle of clothes, she stole safely from the room, 
 through the shadowy, tremulous living-room, 
 and out into the porch. 
 
 Pasco, with folded arms was leaning against 
 one of the rough posts. Dolores coming softly 
 to him, laid a hand on his arms and said in a 
 very low tone: "Will you do something for me?" 
 
 Pasco looked down at her and nodded. 
 
 She looked into his eyes. 
 
 "Get me a knife/' she breathed into his face. 
 
 Dolores moved aside as he started; but she 
 seized his wrist and held him a moment, pulling 
 him towards her. 
 
 "I will wait here," she said sweetly. "A pointed 
 knife. One of the big ones. Be very quiet." 
 
 He vanished into the doorway; and she stood, 
 one hand against the post, squeezing her lips to- 
 gether and breathing deeply. As soon as he 
 
THE BRAYING OF AN ASS 237 
 
 reappeared she sprang towards him and got the 
 knife into her hand. She held it down at arm's 
 length at her side. 
 
 Then she paused. Putting the palm of her 
 left hand against Pasco's breast, "Do you know 
 where the Father keeps his donkey?" she asked. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Will you come with me?" said Dolores, mov- 
 ing nearer to him. "Over there," and she pointed 
 far across the Valley to the east. 
 
 He only looked. 
 
 She threw her left arm up around his neck 
 and pushed his head towards her. Leaning her 
 own head back so that their faces were near to- 
 gether, she said, coaxingly 
 
 "Do you want to come, Pasco?" 
 
 "Yes," said Pasco, his arm round her. 
 
 She half closed her eyes and looked into his 
 till she saw them grow tender and come nearer. 
 Then she suddenly turned her head and so 
 moved it from side to side that his lips touched 
 her brow and brushed across. 
 
 Then she jumped away. 
 
 "Come on," she said. 
 
 "It is horse-stealing," remarked Pasco gravely, 
 as they got under the stars. "You know what 
 they do down there." 
 
 In the San Luis Valley they shoot men for 
 horse-stealing. 
 
 Dolores stopped to give him a long look of 
 
238 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 contempt before saying coolly: "It's only a don- 
 key. And I'll send it back. Besides I have a 
 gun." 
 
 She opened her eyes very wide to give him a 
 good stare. Then she smiled; and starting 
 off on a round pace, turned up the hill, Pasco 
 at her heels. As both were barefooted, they 
 made no noise. 
 
 The night was beginning to be cool. 
 
 They passed on one hand the big house of 
 old Oestocris, on the other the square black 
 church. When they arrived before two little 
 houses, where the priest and Fanita severally 
 lived, Dolores halted. 
 
 As Pasco silently came up with her, she di- 
 rected him: "You go get the donkey." 
 
 "And you?" he asked doubtfully. 
 
 "Shut up," she commanded fiercely. "Wait 
 here with it." 
 
 He disappeared behind the priest's house 
 where the donkey was used to be picketed. Do- 
 lores waited stealthily; and as she listened at 
 the door, she examined her knife, wetting her 
 thumb and running it down the edge. The point, 
 though a trifle bent, was sharp. 
 
 All at once from behind the priest's house, the 
 donkey began to bray. Instinctively Dolores 
 moved away from the door, and letting fall her 
 arm, stood motionless, trembling. The sound 
 seemed fearfully loud; but it was over at once. 
 
THE BRAYING OF AN ASS 239 
 
 Nobody appeared to have heard it. She crouched 
 in the shadow of Fanita's house; but hearing 
 no movement within, came out again just as a 
 man stepped from the other house. 
 
 "Lola!" he said at once, the Father's voice. 
 
 Dolores dropped the knife. 
 
 "Lola!" he repeated, not loud but clearly. 
 "What are you doing?" he demanded as he 
 reached her. "Ah!" 
 
 He had caught sight of the moonlight glisten- 
 ing on the blade of the knife, which had stuck 
 straight up in the ground. 
 
 "I was going to kill Fanita," said the girl 
 defiantly. 
 
 "Sh, sh! No, no!" he said soothingly; "who 
 is with you?" 
 
 "Nobody." 
 
 "Who went to my donkey? Ah, here he is," 
 he added, as Pasco unwittingly started forth and 
 then drew back behind the house. 
 
 "Come out, Pasco," he called in a low tone, 
 "we'll need the donkey. Bring it. Give me 
 the knife," he commanded the girl in a still lower 
 tone. 
 
 Dolores picked it up, and holding it by the 
 blade, gave him the handle. 
 
 "Lola, Lola!" repeated the priest sadly. 
 
 Pasco reaching them, stood silent, holding the 
 donkey. The priest took the bridle from him 
 
240 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 with one hand and held out the knife with the 
 other. Pasco looked, then took it. 
 
 "Take it back," bade the priest coldly; and he 
 shook his head and sighed, "Pasco, I am disap- 
 pointed. No more Saint John now. You will 
 have to be Judas." 
 
 Pasco hung his head. 
 
 "Is there anything you want to take?" the 
 priest asked, turning to the girl who stood star- 
 ing at him boldly. 
 
 "My clothes of course," snapped Dolores; 
 "and who has my money?" 
 
 "I gave you the receipt," said the patient 
 priest; "you can get it in Antonito." 
 
 "And I want my white mantilla in the church," 
 said Dolores. 
 
 "I will get you that," replied the priest; "al- 
 though you dedicated it to San Rafael." 
 
 Dolores muttered some angry remark about 
 San Rafael. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus, with his stateliest step, 
 leading his donkey, started over to the church. 
 Dolores followed close behind, and Pasco some 
 way behind her. 
 
 At the door the Father, turning to Dolores 
 who was about to enter too, holding out a re- 
 straining hand, said: "Do not come into this 
 holy place. Not till you have been absolved." 
 
 As he disappeared inside she broke out furi- 
 ously, as loud as she dared: "Holy place! My 
 
THE BRAYING OF AN ASS 241 
 
 God! You cursed Indians that nail boys on 
 crosses! Half-breeds! Confound you! I spit on 
 you," and a good deal more in confused rage, 
 which caused Pasco to open astonished eyes and 
 to make the sign of the cross. 
 
 When the priest reappeared with the white 
 lace mantilla, Dolores with an angry grunt, 
 snatched it from him; and as she walked down 
 the slope towards Panchita's, she tried nervously 
 to fold it. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus, tightening the rope 
 about his waist as he waited, and Pasco with the 
 knife, stood outside Dolores's window while she 
 climbed in. They could hear her inside, throw- 
 ing and pulling things about, choking, sobbing, 
 and scolding. As their serious eyes met, the 
 priest shook his head and Pasco again looked 
 down. 
 
 Dolores tugged her bundle up on the window- 
 sill. 
 
 "Here, take this," she said with tears of anger 
 in her voice. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus -helped her out; and 
 getting on his donkey directed her to put her 
 bundle up and to mount behind him. Dolores 
 shivered in the chill night air. 
 
 Pasco stood watching them. 
 
 "Good-bye, Pasco;" Dolores defiantly held out 
 her hand. 
 
242 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Pasco came running alongside and took it; she 
 gave his hand a squeeze. 
 
 "Good-bye," she repeated bitterly, "you're the 
 one decent person in this dirty town." 
 
 Watching them ride off, he stood alone, till 
 they were swallowed into the night. 
 
XXIX 
 
 FAY'S GUEST 
 
 DOLORES and the priest rode down into 
 the dark Valley. Sometimes they went 
 in a slow dog-trot, but generally in a 
 walk. The moon, near her setting, shed down 
 a weakening purplish light on their backs; there 
 was no sound of any living creature but them- 
 selves. As they crossed the ford the warm water 
 splashed up on their cold feet. 
 
 Then on they rode through the monotonous 
 low-land; on either side the fences could just 
 be seen, black and endless, running along for- 
 ever. Beyond them was the dark spread of the 
 desert, without a tree, without a house. Over- 
 head the sky twinkled with stars; as the moon 
 grew faint, the Milky Way became distinct. 
 
 At first, although he told her to, Dolores 
 would not touch the priest to hold herself on; but 
 before long, since she found that she and her 
 awkward bundle rolled about dangerously, she 
 suddenly put one arm around his waist. Frown- 
 ing and biting her lip, she maintained a dogged 
 silence. The night faded out and the unhealthy 
 gray false dawn began to spread vaguely over 
 the flat Valley. It was chilly, and there was a 
 deathlike silence and freshness. 
 
 243 
 
244 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 The priest, taking his rosary out of his girdle, 
 began half-audibly to repeat prayers in Latin. 
 
 Dolores tried to make out the ghostly sug- 
 gestion of great mountains far away over the 
 plain. 
 
 When he had finished the prayers Father 
 Maria de Jesus, half-turning to his companion, 
 said kindly: "Wouldn't you like me to confess 
 you now, Lola?" 
 
 "No," snapped Dolores. 
 
 "But I don't like to let you go from me with 
 the stain of sin on your soul," he protested. 
 
 The girl tossed her head. 
 
 "I guess there are priests over there," she re- 
 torted, "just as good." 
 
 The Father after a moment of silence, said 
 earnestly: "Yes, I know there are. But be sure 
 you go to them, Lola." 
 
 Dolores sputtered in disdain. 
 
 "I'll go when I'm sorry," she declared. 
 
 The Father sighed. 
 
 They came to a branching in the yellowish 
 road, and as they chose one turn, Dolores, in a 
 tone of suspicion, said quickly: "That's the road." 
 
 "The road to where?" asked the patient priest. 
 
 "To Las Animas, of course; that's where I 
 want to go," she answered petulantly. 
 
 "I thought I'd take you to Antonito, 
 Lola," he began cautiously, "to Father Eman- 
 uele " 
 
FAY'S GUEST 245 
 
 "For my money? All right." 
 
 "Yes, your money is there," he agreed; "but 
 I thought of leaving you there awhile. I know 
 he would take you in, and you would have a 
 good home. His sister is a holy woman " 
 
 "I am tired of holy women," she sullenly inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 "But you have no one to go to, Lola." 
 
 "I have Cristobal. He is better to me than 
 you are; and I'll go to him," she snapped. 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 "Do you hear?" she asked sharply. "I'll go 
 over to Las Animas to Cristobal. He is wait- 
 ing for me there. I won't stay with your old 
 priest, I tell you, even if you do leave me." 
 
 "I can't force you to do this and that, Lola," 
 he said sadly. "I know that, but I don't like 
 to let you go off this way, alone. You might 
 not find Cristobal; and even if you did, I am 
 not sure I want him to marry you yet " 
 
 "I don't care what you want any more," said 
 the girl. 
 
 "Lola, Lola," he protested, "be more charita- 
 ble. I can't bear to see you going away like this. 
 But, as I told you, I cannot force you to do any- 
 thing, and I will not try. Only," he added with a 
 sigh, "I have done all I could for you; and I 
 don't think you ought to hate me; and if you 
 will run into harm because you do, I don't know 
 how I am to forgive myself." 
 
246 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 They rode along for a while in silence. The 
 dawn light was thickening and the black bulk 
 of Blanca began to show strangely in the still, 
 weird, early morning. The houses of Antonito 
 began to gather into sight up the tan-colored 
 desert. They came to a wayside artesian well, 
 and Dolores said she wanted a drink. The priest, 
 dismounting, had filled his hat with water, which 
 he turned to offer her; but she was already down 
 and was drinking at the foaming spout. So he 
 presented his dripping hat to the grateful don- 
 key. 
 
 When they were mounted and away again, 
 he tried once more, gently: "You are a very 
 sinful girl, Lola; and I think if you would stay 
 only a few days in this peaceful household " 
 
 "I won't go there at all," interrupted Dolores 
 firmly, "if you don't promise not to try to 
 make me stay." 
 
 With a sigh, "Well, I promise," he replied 
 resignedly. 
 
 By very early morning they plodded into the 
 extreme end of the sleeping village of Antonito, 
 and drew up before the priest's house. There 
 was not a living soul stirring that they saw; for 
 the hotel, where a sentry was pacing up and 
 down his post, was hidden by a slight curve in 
 the street. But as they dismounted, they saw a 
 flash of green inside the open front door; and 
 directly afterwards a plump, youthful figure in a 
 
FAY'S GUEST 247 
 
 green gown, coming out on the steps with a 
 broom in her hands, caught sight of them, and 
 stood leaning on her broom, quietly eyeing 
 them. She said nothing as they went up the 
 walk, Dolores with her haughtiest strut. 
 
 "Good morning, my daughter," began Father 
 Maria de Jesus in English, as the two halted at 
 the foot of the steps; "is it too early for us to see 
 the good Father?" 
 
 "If you mean Father Emanuele," said Fay 
 Grady with a yawn, "it is too early. There ain't 
 nobody in the house awake yet, but me." 
 
 The priest looked dubiously at Dolores. "If 
 you will wait a little while, Lola, I will leave a 
 note telling the Father to> deliver your money to 
 you." 
 
 Dolores yawned in her turn, and said nonchal- 
 antly, "I don't care. I'm pretty tired. I can 
 rest awhile." 
 
 "And I dare say this young woman will give 
 you some breakfast," he said encouragingly. 
 
 Fay Grady, leaning on her broom, said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "Could you?" he asked her directly. 
 
 "I don't know whether I could or not till I 
 ask Miss Tecla," replied Fay; "she might be 
 awful mad." 
 
 The priest smiled. "I am sure I can answer 
 for that," he said; "she is a good woman. Do 
 you think she will be down soon?" 
 
248 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Fay took her mild, steady eyes off Dolores and 
 answered: "Not before half an hour, I guess. 
 You can wait if you want." 
 
 She turned her eyes back on Dolores, who 
 tossed her head and made a mocking- face at her. 
 
 "No, I haven't time," said Maria de Jesus; "I 
 must be home for mass. But Dolores will wait; 
 and if you can get me a pencil and paper with- 
 out disturbing any one, I will leave a little note 
 for the Father. Could you?" 
 
 "I s'pose I could in the Father's study," said 
 Fay, and turned ponderously to disappear inside 
 the house. 
 
 "I am sorry, Lola," said the priest, "that I 
 must leave you." 
 
 Dolores tossed her head, as much as to say 
 she cared little. 
 
 "I'll get your bundle," he said kindly. 
 
 When he came back to the steps with it, Do- 
 lores still stood defiant, shoulders back and hands 
 on hips. Presently Fay reappeared with a sheet 
 of paper and a pencil. These she gave the priest, 
 saying: "I couldn't find only ink at first." 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus, seating himself on the 
 lowest step wrote on a higher one. He wrote 
 with some pains and very laboriously. During 
 his task Dolores more than once fastened her 
 contemptuous black eyes on Fay; but the stolid 
 gray ones returned her withering stare most 
 complacently. The endurance of optic nerves 
 
FAY'S GUEST 249 
 
 might have been crucially tried, had not the end 
 of the inditing ended this silent battle. 
 
 "There," said the priest, creasing his letter 
 shut, "give that to Father Emanuele, my daugh- 
 ter. Is there any news in town to-day?" 
 
 Fay hesitated; and at last answered truly: "Not 
 as I know of." 
 
 The priest turned to go. "Remember what I 
 have told you, Lola." 
 
 At the gate he turned back again and called 
 out: "God bless you, Lola!" raising his hand in 
 benediction. Dolores leaning forward, spat on 
 the ground towards him. 
 
 Father Chucho, sighing deeply, pulled his 
 'donkey's head round towards the long hot 
 homeward ride. 
 
 His parting salutation to the intractable Do- 
 lores probably wakened the Sefiorita Tecla, be- 
 cause he had not been gone two minutes when 
 that severe lady, arrayed in a gray calico wrap- 
 per, appeared at the open front door. The sun, 
 now fully risen, threw his early hot rays into 
 the garden and upon the yellow front of the 
 house. The two girls were still upon the 
 steps. 
 
 "Who is this?" began the Sefiorita sharply, in- 
 dicating Dolores to Fay Grady. 
 
 "I don't know," yawned her hand-maiden dis- 
 interestedly. 
 
250 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Where did she come from?" Tecla demanded 
 with a shade more of impatience. 
 
 . 'The little Penitente priest brought her on 
 his donkey." 
 
 "Where is he now?" said Tecla. 
 
 "He's gone away again," Fay replied. 
 
 "Did you tell him the soldiers were here?" 
 asked the mistress, anxiously. 
 
 Fay shook her head. At the word soldiers 
 Dolores smiled with furtive pleasure. 
 
 "Run after him, Fay Grady; run and bring 
 him back. Tell him about it;" bade Tecla, ner- 
 vous with excitement. 
 
 Fay didn't move. 
 
 "Do you hear me?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Fay, unmoved; "but he said 
 he was in a hurry; and I couldn't catch him if 
 I did run. I can't run as fast as a donkey." 
 
 "You talk as slow as one," Tecla snapped, 
 glaring at her with a look of helpless agitation. 
 She fairly trembled in her anxiety. But a gleam 
 of memory seemed somewhat to lessen her 
 worry. 
 
 "I believe the Father is going to send a mes- 
 sage up to San Rafael to-day. But you ought to 
 have told him. Suppose the soldiers are sent to 
 stop them." 
 
 "I don't care if they are," remarked Fay. 
 
 "I am ashamed " began Tecla; and stopped 
 with a gasp', fixing her fierce eyes on the girl as 
 
FAY'S GUEST 251 
 
 if to cow her. Then she turned toward Dolores, 
 over whose face a gleam of satisfaction had 
 spread during this conversation. 
 
 She spoke to her in Spanish. "Are you a 
 Penitente?" 
 
 "No, I'm not," answered the girl angrily in 
 English; "and I hope the soldiers will go up 
 there and catch them. Murderers! I hate 
 them." 
 
 Tecla's face was aghast. 
 
 "Here's a letter he left for the Father," put in 
 Fay with great equanimity, pointing to it in Do- 
 lores's hand. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me before," exclaimed 
 Tecla, fairly snatching the proffered paper. After 
 hastily reading the superscription, she hurried 
 indoors again. 
 
 Dolores looked after her with a mocking 
 smile. 
 
 "Are you a Mormon?" Fay asked. 
 
 "I am not," said Dolores with decision. 
 
 "I thought you wasn't," considered Fay; 
 " 'cause you are so peppery." 
 
 Dolores, bending no very gracious look on 
 her, said haughtily: "Get me some paper, too. 
 I want to write a letter." 
 
 Fay looked at her sideways, and made no mo- 
 tion to go. 
 
 "Go on," bade the other, "hurry up!" 
 
 "I ain't your servant," replied Fay, coolly; 
 
252 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "and if you want me to do anything for you, you 
 got to say 'please.' ' 
 
 Dolores bit her lip, flushing. 
 
 "I must have it," she said earnestly; "get it. 
 Please, then." 
 
 "Do you want Miss Tecla to know it?" asked 
 Fay. 
 
 "No, no. I'm going to write to my lover," 
 she said, in a sudden burst of confidence; "and 
 tell him to come and get me. He's afraid of sol- 
 diers; and I want to see if he loves me enough." 
 
 "Well, I can't get it now without her seeing 
 me," said Fay; "she's in there." 
 
 At this moment a door inside was heard to 
 open and to close. 
 
 "I'll get it for you after a while," said Fay, low- 
 ering her voice; and then the Senorita reap- 
 peared. 
 
 Meanwhile Tecla had gone into the ground- 
 floor room where her brother slept, and finding 
 him now sleeping, had put her hand on his shoul- 
 der and shaken him back and forth till he awoke, 
 blinking. 
 
 "Here's a letter from Father Maria de Jesus," 
 she said, as soon as he opened his eyes. 
 
 "Hm?" he mumbled. 
 
 "Shall I read it to* you?" She opened it, and 
 hearing his sleepy murmur of assent read in 
 Spanish: "Beloved brother, you may deliver to 
 this maiden, Dolores, the money I entrusted you 
 
FAY'S GUEST 253 
 
 to keep for her. She is a headstrong, violent 
 girl; her soul is dark with sinful designs. I wish 
 you may persuade her to- remain some time in 
 your peaceful household, for her soul's sake. 
 Your brother in God, who kisses your hand, 
 Maria de Jesus." 
 
 "A-a-a," muttered Emanuele sleepily. Then 
 rousing himself a little, said thickly: "The money 
 is in my desk in a bag. You can get it." 
 
 "You are not going to let her go," exclaimed 
 Tecla. 
 
 "Hm?" he queried, turning over painfully and 
 panting. 
 
 "See what the Father says. We must keep 
 her." 
 
 "Do as you think," said Emanuele, between 
 half-groans. "The Father is always right." 
 
 Tecla stood resting her eyes on him, musing. 
 Her purpose w r as growing firm in her mind. She 
 wished her brother could wake up thoroughly 
 more quickly; but at the same time she realized 
 that it was now as well perhaps that he didn't. 
 A gleam of pity for the sick brother crossed her 
 ungentle eyes; and without more words she 
 turned and went noiselessly from the half-dark- 
 ened chamber. 
 
 When she appeared again in the sunlight on 
 the steps, she was honeying her pointed tongue 
 for her charitable ends. 
 
 Dolores herself furnished the opportunity. 
 
254 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "He said you'd give me something to eat," 
 she proposed, pleased to be gracious too. 
 
 "Of course I will, my dear," answered T'ecla 
 with such unwonted unction that Fay Grady 
 turned on her her great gray eyes, wider even 
 than usual. "Come right in and bring your 
 bundle. I'll take you upstairs; and Fay can be 
 getting breakfast ready for us." 
 
 Dolores, with a swing of her skirts, swam up 
 the steps, brushing against Fay; but while ac- 
 cepting the invitation she ignored the hint about 
 her bundle, which Tecla, with a sour glance at 
 Fay, was fain to pick up herself, and follow her 
 new guest in and up the stairs. 
 
 Fay, with her usual deliberation, took her 
 broom from the corner of the door, and pro- 
 ceeded to the kitchen. There some five minutes 
 later, while she was bending over a spluttering 
 gridiron on the open stove, she heard the door 
 open; and turning her heated red face, saw Do- 
 lores with head thrown back swing down the 
 three steps into the room. She came close to 
 Fay, and in a low tone said: "The paper. Don't 
 forget. She's dressing now." 
 
 "All right. I'll go and get it then," said Fay; 
 "here, you hold this, and don't let it burn." 
 
 After one look of astonishment Dolores took 
 the handle of the gridiron; and Fay went slowly 
 from the room. 
 
 Directly she returned, and as she opened the 
 
FAY'S GUEST 255 
 
 door, a smell of burning meat met her. Dolores 
 was standing by the open window on tiptoes, 
 peering out. She turned back into the room. 
 
 "Can you see the soldiers from here?" she 
 said: "are they at the hotel?" 
 
 Fay who had lifted the gridiron with one hand, 
 and was holding out the paper and pencil with 
 the other, answered: "No; the fence is too high. 
 I told you not to let this burn." 
 
 Dolores gave her a serious look, and said noth- 
 ing. She was twisting the point of the pencil 
 in her mouth. 
 
 "Well, you'll have to eat it," remarked Fay; 
 "it ain't much burned, anyhow, I guess." 
 
 Seated before her sheet of paper, the new- 
 comer was bending her brows in cogitation. 
 
 "Can you write very good?" asked Fay, with 
 a slight tinge of wonder in her tone. 
 
 Dolores nodded. "Good enough," she said, 
 raising her head after tracing a couple of words 
 with even more labor than Maria de Jesus had 
 expended. 
 
 "Do you know any of the soldiers?" she asked 
 Fay. 
 
 Fay nodded. 
 
 "Yes, I know one of 'em what's a Captain." 
 
 "Do you like him?" 
 
 Fay considered before replying: "Oh, good 
 enough. I ain't worryin' much about them, 
 'cause I got a chance to get married." 
 
256 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Is he in love with you?" 
 
 "Naphtali? Why, I suppose he is." Fay was 
 filling the coffee pot, and didn't stop to ponder. 
 
 "The Captain, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, him? I don't know," said Fay carelessly. 
 "He might be. I ain't known him but only yes- 
 terday; but he kissed me last night." 
 
 After a contemptuous stare at Fay, who was 
 all unconscious of it, Dolores shrugged her 
 shoulders, and then leaned again to her letter. 
 After much labored breathing, and many grim- 
 aces, and frequent brushing the hair from her 
 eyes, she at last ended it. 
 
 "Dear Cristobal," it read, but in Spanish; 
 "Come over to Father Emanuele's and get me. 
 There are soldiers here. If you are not afraid, 
 and love me still, come. If you don't, I'll marry 
 them, because they are in love with me, and 
 you'll never see me any more. Lovingly, Lola." 
 
 She addressed it to Janoso in Las Animas 
 County. 
 
 "Will you take it and mail it?" she asked 
 Fay. 
 
 Fay looked at her fixedly for a moment or 
 two, until Dolores stamped her foot with im- 
 patience. "Perhaps I might after while," an- 
 swered Fay. 
 
 "It must go right now. I'll take it myself, 
 then." 
 
FAY'S GUEST 257 
 
 As she heard the kitchen door open, she 
 shoved the letter into her bosom. 
 
 "Where are you going?" demanded Tecla 
 sharply. 
 
 Dolores opened her mouth and then shut it; 
 but her eyes flashed as she answered with pre- 
 ternatural mildness, her hand still on the door- 
 knob: "Just for a little walk." 
 
 "It's breakfast time," said Tecla decisively; 
 "besides the town is full of soldiers and I don't 
 want you walking out there. You're up to some 
 mischief, I'll be bound. And you, too, Fay 
 Grady; don't you go out except when you are 
 sent, while these soldiers are here. Come," she 
 said sweetly to Dolores; "we'll have breakfast 
 now." 
 
 The girl hesitated. She bit her lip, and threw 
 a wicked side-glance at her hostess before she 
 answered mildly: "All right." As she took her 
 seat, she asked: "When does the down train 
 pass?" 
 
 "At nine," said Tecla. "Why? You aren't 
 going away." 
 
 Dolores's feelings burst forth in one flash. "I 
 am when I get ready," she cried in a rage. Then 
 she subsided, with one burning spot on each 
 dark cheek. 
 
 Tecla eyed her ominously; but a diversion was 
 at hand. 
 
 "Fay Grady, this meat is burnt!" she said 
 
258 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 wrathfully, as the dish was offered to her by her 
 waitress-cook. 
 
 "I know it," said Fay placidly. "It ain't my 
 fault." 
 
 "Don't make excuses, you careless creature!" 
 replied Tecla. 
 
 For some while there was silence in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 When Tecla and her guest had finished their 
 meal, Fay Grady sat down at the end of the 
 table for her own. Her mistress consulted her 
 watch; put it back into her scant bosom with 
 compressed lips; in a few minutes consulted it 
 again. 
 
 "Fay Grady, it is seven o'clock almost. 
 Weren't you to go over to the hotel then?" 
 
 Fay arose with unusual alacrity. But afte*r 
 taking her sunbonnet down from a peg and put- 
 ting it on, she hesitated, while she stood at the 
 door waiting. Tecla prodded her again: 
 
 "Go on, you lazy thing! What's the matter?" 
 
 "Was that the Father calling?" asked Fay 
 demurely. 
 
 Jumping up in her turn, Tecla hastened from 
 the room. 
 
 "I'll take your letter now," said Fay. 
 
 JDolores ran over to her, getting it out of her 
 bosom, and shoved it into Fay's hands. Then 
 she too gave her a little push. 
 
 "Go on," she said. 
 
FAY'S GUEST 259 
 
 "I am a-goin'," replied Fay; "but I think you 
 might tell me 'thank you.' ' 
 
 "Oh, thank you, then," cried the other with a 
 stamp of her foot. 
 
 Fay opened the door and went out into the 
 hot sunshine. 
 
 She passed by the hotel on her way to the 
 station, where she posted the letter, and then 
 turned back. As she approached the hotel the 
 second time, she saw several riderless horses 
 standing before the door, and as she went in 
 heard men's voices behind a closed inner door, 
 upon which she knocked. 
 
XXX 
 
 A MORMON EMBASSY 
 
 BY SEVEN o'clock that morning after the 
 arrival of the soldiers at Antonito prob- 
 ably everybody in the San Luis Valley 
 had breakfasted. It is not a region where men 
 sleep late. The sun was already high and hot. 
 
 There was not much liveliness about the hotel. 
 Houghteling, Stange, Wezel, Dumain, and the 
 Sergeant sat in the dining-room, silently await- 
 ing the arrival of the Mormons. Most of the 
 men were outside in the shade cleaning their 
 small-arms or playing cards. 
 
 Dumain finally said to Houghteling: "Are you 
 going to send up to San Rafael this morning?" 
 
 "You seem worried lest I should forget my 
 duties, Mr. Dumain," replied Houghteling, frig- 
 idly courteous. 
 
 The Jesuit, unruffled, answered: "I only wished 
 to say that I must go up there this morning, and 
 could carry any message you might wish to 
 send." 
 
 "I have already detailed some one to go," said 
 the other, a shade less stiffly; "it would give me 
 great pleasure to have him carry your message, 
 if you wish." 
 
 "I thank you," said Dumain; "but I must go in 
 
 260 
 
A MORMON EMBASSY 261 
 
 person, I promised Father Emanuele, . who is 
 sick, that I would go in his place. So as to make 
 assurance doubly sure," he added. 
 
 Houghteling kept his eyes fixed on him some 
 moments. Then turning to Stange he said, qui- 
 etly: "Have you sent that letter yet?" 
 
 Stange got up and left the room. Directly he 
 was in again, saying: "Wivvers is coming." 
 
 The trample of many hoofs not far away could 
 be heard. 
 
 "He is coming in force," Dumain remarked. 
 
 "He may think we want to bully him," Alfie 
 surmised. 
 
 "No, he don't," began Wezel. "I told him 
 you wanted him to help you fight the San 
 Rafaelers, and if he wanted Fay Grady " 
 
 "Who the devil told you to say that?" cried 
 Houghteling. "Did you tell him that?" he de- 
 manded of the Sergeant. 
 
 "No, sir; I only gave him your letter: I didn't 
 know anybody told him." 
 
 "I said that so's to explain," wheezed Wezel. 
 
 Houghteling, silent, looked appealingly at 
 Stange, with helpless anger in his dark face. 
 
 "I don't believe any harm will come of it," put 
 in Dumain encouragingly, as men outside were 
 heard and partly seen dropping off their horses. 
 
 In a moment they came stamping in. Wivvers 
 at their head, a tremendously big creature in 
 boots, stood on the threshold looking them over. 
 
262 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Behind him were eight other lesser but stalwart 
 fellows, some in buckskin shaps, some in boots. 
 All alike wore flannel shirts, broad felt hats, and 
 at least one revolver. 
 
 "Mornin'," growled Wivvers, coming nearer. 
 
 "Good morning. I presume you are Mr. 
 Wivvers," said Houghteling. 
 
 The big man nodded. 
 
 "Sit down," said Houghteling, sitting down 
 himself. 
 
 Wivvers planted his legs firmly; but when all 
 the receiving party sat down, he sat down too; 
 as did all his comrades who could find chairs. 
 
 "I guess you are Captain Ho Ho ," be- 
 gan Wivvers in his coarse nasal voice. 
 
 "I am Captain Houghteling." 
 
 "So you are the person what's going to get 
 me a wife," said the Mormon insolently. 
 
 "We understood you had a wife," said Stange 
 sarcastically. 
 
 "I said nothing in my letter, as I remember, 
 about wives," Houghteling stated. 
 
 "Maybe you didn't say all you meant," re- 
 torted Wivvers, looking very black. 
 
 "If so, it was because I can say it to you face 
 to face," replied the Captain, keeping calm. 
 
 "Well, fire away." 
 
 "For the time being, I am the highest repre- 
 sentative of the United States Government in 
 this place." 
 
A MORMON EMBASSY 263 
 
 'That's our Government," said one of the 
 Mormons. 
 
 "I have been sent down here," continued the 
 Captain in the tone of one that condescends to 
 explain, "to put an end to certain illegal prac- 
 tices in the village of San Rafael. I needn't say 
 that I mean the crucifixion. That is our sole 
 purpose in coming here." 
 
 "Oh!" laughed Wivvers knowingly, nodding. 
 
 At this moment came a knock at the door. 
 
 "Come in," cried Houghteling. 
 
 Fay Grady came in. 
 
 There was a silence. Wivvers looked right- 
 eously triumphant; Fay surprised; the soldiers 
 rather discomfited. 
 
 "I came to see Mr. Dumain," drawled Fay. 
 
 "Who is he?" Wivvers demanded. 
 
 "I am he." 
 
 "What did you come to see him for?" 
 
 "The Father sent me." 
 
 "I am a priest," said Dumain simply. 
 
 "I am an elder," said Wivvers, "and that's just 
 as good under this free Government. I can 
 marry people as good as you can." 
 
 "And much more frequently," laughed Alfie. 
 
 "I refer to performin' a marriage ceremony," 
 said Wivvers impressively, his voice quivering 
 with anger. 
 
 Houghteling rose, slapped the table smartly 
 for silence and said: "You people are all laboring 
 
264 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 under a mistake. We came here, as I told you, 
 to put down the disturbance at San Rafael. We 
 sent for you simply to see if you wished to 
 to join us in our expedition. There is no cause 
 for quarreling. Since you feel " 
 
 "Maybe we've got cause to quarrel," said 
 Wivvers. 
 
 "Likely story," sneered one of the Mormons. 
 "Didn't you bring enough soldiers to fight your 
 own battles?" 
 
 "We didn't wish you to fight our battles," 
 said Houghteling. "We don't intend to fight 
 any. We only thought it well to have your 
 moral support " 
 
 "I don't believe a word of what you're givin' 
 us," began Naphtali Wivvers hotly. 
 
 Houghteling flushed red. Turning to Stange, 
 "Gad!" he said in a low voice between his teeth, 
 and added, "I must get 'em out peaceably, 
 though." 
 
 "You've been sent down here," Wivvers went 
 on, "against us Saints; and you can't find out, 
 either, that any one of us has got two wives," he 
 fairly shouted. "So what do you do? Why, you 
 come sneakin', spyin' round, for all the world 
 like Indians or half-breeds, tryin* to force one 
 of us into a polygamous marriage, so's to have 
 evidence. That's a nice way for United States 
 soldiers, ain't it?" Dumain and Stange and 
 Houghteling looked at one another. "I should 
 
A MORMON EMBASSY 265 
 
 think you'd ought to be ashamed," went on the 
 furious elder, "It's a smart trap, ain't it? But 
 you can't ketch us," all the Mormons grumbled 
 in assent. "You can't convict no man for his 
 intentions, and I ain't afraid to tell you I was 
 a-goin' to marry that there girl and the whole 
 Valley knows it; I ain't never kep' it secret, 
 have I?" 
 
 His supporters sang out "No," in chorus. 
 
 "I understood," said Stange clearly, "that you 
 were waiting for her consent. Women don't like 
 being number two." 
 
 Wivvers ground his teeth. 
 
 Fay was still standing just inside the door, 
 her face and attitude as placid as usual. 
 
 "You needn't be afeared I'll marry her now," 
 Naphtali sneered. "You've got that satisfac- 
 tion." 
 
 "You can marry whom you damn please," said 
 Alfie. 
 
 "And play your little hand for you," added 
 Naphtali. 
 
 "Maybe that's what he wants?" suggested one 
 of the Mormons. "Maybe he wants to be joined 
 to her himself." 
 
 Alfie gave a derisive shout of laughter. 
 
 "He never saw the girl till yesterday," said 
 Dumain. 
 
 But Wivvers grew gray with suppressed rage. 
 
266 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Turning to Fay he asked in a quivering voice: 
 "Does he want to marry you?" 
 
 Houghteling interrupted: "This has gone far 
 enough. I give you my word of honor " 
 
 Wivvers indicated Stange and said to Fay, 
 "Did that man ever make love to you?" 
 
 "What nonsense!" cried Stange. 
 
 "He kissed me last night," drawled Fay. 
 
 Wivvers jumped up, oversetting his chair. 
 His eyes fairly flamed. 
 
 "You don't mind bein' second, do you?" he 
 roared at Stange. 
 
 Fay, with a frightened look, hurriedly added, 
 "But he told me to marry you." 
 
 There was a moment of suspense. 
 
 "Oh," said Wivvers in a suppressed, deep 
 voice. "I see. Afterwards " 
 
 Houghteling stepped forward. 
 
 "Leave this house," he commanded firmly. 
 
 Wivvers's hand went instinctively to his re- 
 volver. 
 
 "We have twenty trained men to nine of you," 
 the Captain warned him quietly. 
 
 Wivvers let go of his pistol and began to back 
 out the door in sullen silence. Slowly the nine 
 Saints slouched from the house. Houghteling, 
 with the others behind him, stood in the door- 
 way. 
 
 "Be careful," said the Captain, as the Mor- 
 mons mounted, "to make no disturbance while 
 
A MORMON EMBASSY 267 
 
 we are here. You had better not come to An- 
 tonito again." 
 
 The nine men rode off at a gallop. 
 
 "Well; quite an exciting scene!" remarked 
 Stange, turning from the door. 
 
 Houghteling gave him a withering look. 
 
 Fay Grady, who was behind Dumain, now 
 pulled him by the sleeve and said: "Have you 
 got any message for the Father?" 
 
 "I'll go over with you," Dumain briskly an- 
 swered. 
 
 No one said a word as the two started. 
 
 Wezel stood in dejection, as if expecting the 
 blame he deserved for his indiscretion. But 
 Houghteling without noticing him, said to Alfie, 
 "Come with me," and started up the rickety 
 stairs. 
 
 Once in his own room, Houghteling closed 
 the door and then said quietly to Stange: "You 
 are a damned fool." 
 
 "I know it, Dan," replied Stange, looking at 
 him sorrowfully; "but you are the only man I 
 would let say so." 
 
 The Captain, unpacified, continued: "Didn't I 
 tell you to drop that marriage idea?" 
 
 "I know it, Dan." 
 
 "Why did you kiss her?" 
 
 "What do you kiss any girl for?" 
 
 "This girl isn't even pretty; a. fat Irish, Mor- 
 mon!" 
 
268 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "There's a sweet complacency about her that 
 I like," said Alfie, musing. 
 
 "Sweet complacency of a cow!" 
 
 "Besides, she's the only girl I've seen, Danny! 
 Poor little Fay! I guess she'll never be married 
 to that brute now. She's a good little girl, too. 
 But I think," he said, putting his hand on his 
 friend's arm, "your friend ought to have a share 
 of " 
 
 "It's all his fault," said Houghteling grimly; 
 "just let him show me an excuse to arrest him. 
 I wish I had arrested Wiwers, now. I was only 
 too anxious to placate him. Having him would 
 be even surer." 
 
 "Oh, we'll never see him again," says Alfie. 
 
 "I hope not, but I don't know." 
 
XXXI 
 
 FATHER CHUCHO WARNED 
 
 A FAY and Dumain walked to the priest's 
 house, he reproved her for her indis- 
 cretion. 
 
 "I reckon it would V been best not to say 
 nothin'," agreed the girl, "and after this I won't; 
 but I was surprised, and I don't understand for 
 sure what them soldiers come for anyhow." 
 
 "All that's necessary for you to understand is 
 that you mustn't tell anything they say or do, 
 or I say or do, to the Father or his sister or the 
 Saints, unless I say you may." 
 
 "Well, I guess I can do that," said Fay. 
 
 Dumain found Emanuele decidedly ailing. He 
 told him that the soldiers and a delegation from 
 the Mormons had had a stormy meeting in the 
 hotel that morning, and that although he could 
 not exactly discover the outcome, he now felt 
 sure the expedition had to do only with Man- 
 assa. "So, if you like," he proposed, "I will go 
 up to San Rafael to encourage them in their 
 pious undertaking, as I now see no reason why 
 it should not go on." 
 
 Emanuele wrote him a letter in his tremulous 
 hand, introducing him to the Penitente Father 
 Maria de Jesus. But when Dumain suggested 
 
 269 
 
270 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 that he tell them to go on bravely with their 
 ceremony Emanuele refused, saying with senile 
 caution that he should wait first to see if the 
 soldiers left Antonito. 
 
 While the priest's mule-wagon was hitching 
 to take him up, Dumain returned to the hotel 
 on pretext of getting his beads. Houghteling 
 and Stange had come downstairs again and were 
 sitting smoking in the shade of the doorway. 
 
 "Have you sent your messenger yet?" inquired 
 Dumain. "I'm just starting for San Rafael." 
 
 Houghteling very slowly blew the smoke out 
 of his mouth. Alfie, saying nothing, raised his 
 eyebrows at Dumain as the other at last an- 
 swered: "We are going to run this expedition 
 alone from now on." 
 
 "I see," said Dumain quietly, and went up- 
 stairs. 
 
 When he came down after a minute or two, 
 he paused to say: "The old priest is so much 
 alarmed that he bade me tell them under no con- 
 dition to go on. I thought you might like to 
 know it." 
 
 "Thank you," said Houghteling coolly. 
 
 The man who harnessed the mules declared 
 that he was unable to accompany Dumain, as 
 Senorita Tecla was sending him for medicine to 
 La Jara, in quite an opposite direction; but he 
 pointed out the route so carefully, that even in 
 the puzzling monotony of the desert, Dumain 
 
FATHER CHUCHO WARNED 271 
 
 was sure not to lose his way; and he told him 
 where there was a wayside artesian well where 
 he might stop to eat the lunch Fay Grady had 
 brought him wrapped in an old Denver news- 
 paper. 
 
 A ten-mile drive over the wastes of monoton- 
 ous tawny sand, through the unmerciful sun- 
 shine, brought him to the well. It was not only 
 too early for lunch, but he wished to be at San 
 Rafael. Sweep the orange wastes of sand as he 
 might, he had seen no trace of the soldiers' mes- 
 senger. So he halted only long enough to let 
 the mules drink and to bathe his wrists and 
 glowing face in the cool water, and made on 
 again. Before long gathered out of the mirage 
 the brown adobe huts, and the brown adobe 
 church with its rude belfry, which were San 
 Rafael. 
 
 As he approached, up the slope of the hill, he 
 was aware of two soldiers mounted waiting in 
 front of the square church, one of whom he 
 directly distinguished as the Sergeant. No one 
 else was to be seen. Apparently everybody was 
 at mass. He left the wagon in the shade of a 
 house. 
 
 He bowed to the two soldiers as he walked to- 
 ward them, who gravely saluted. Through the 
 open church door he could barely distinguish 
 people kneeling in a dusk against which the six 
 altar candles stood out like drops of sunlight. 
 
272 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 They gleamed on the green robe of one celebrat- 
 ing mass. 
 
 Suddenly he halted. He had just noticed out- 
 side the door a figure of some one in a loose 
 brown garment crouching rather than kneeling 
 in the sand, bent under the weight of a huge 
 cross. From him his eyes wandered again to 
 the six or seven gaunt black crosses stuck up in 
 the sand here and there about the hamlet. The 
 Jesuit shuddered. Those crosses marked the 
 graves of former cross-bearers. 
 
 "Have you waited long?" asked Dumain of 
 the soldiers. 
 
 "Half an hour, just about," answered the Ser- 
 geant. 
 
 "It's warm/ 5 said Dumain, glancing at the 
 brown heap under the cross. 
 
 "It is indeed, sir," the Sergeant passed his 
 hand across his forehead 
 
 "You talk Spanish?" 
 
 "Not a word," the Sergeant shook his head. 
 
 "I dare say he knows English," said Dumain. 
 
 "I've got my letter, sir; and if he don't under- 
 stand English, the Captain can write another in 
 Spanish." 
 
 "Or I can translate it to him," suggested 
 Dumain. 
 
 The bell began to ring; and the Jesuit imme- 
 diately kneeled down behind the brown figure 
 on the ground, making the sign of the cross. In- 
 
FATHER CHUCHO WARNED 273 
 
 side he could see the green-robed priest before 
 the altar. The bell rang again. Dumain cov- 
 ered his face with his hands. The celebrant with- 
 in raised the golden chalice toward the crucifix. 
 There was a hush. The bell rang again. 
 
 When mass was finally over, the Penitentes 
 came out, turning at the door to bow to the altar 
 and to make the sign of the cross; some of them 
 assisted the cross-bearer to his feet. All were 
 bare-footed; and the men wore long hair. They 
 had pathetic, passionate faces. Though they all 
 gazed at Dumain and the soldiers as they passed, 
 none of them spoke. Silently they dispersed to 
 their own houses, their hands still clasped as 
 when they came from the communion rail. 
 
 Dumain watched the youth tied to the cross 
 tremble under his burden. He could not stand 
 upright beneath its weight. There was a numb, 
 set expression on his regular features, as if he 
 were oblivious of his pain. 
 
 At last the priest having laid off his celebrat- 
 ing robes, came out dressed in a dirty brown 
 gown. The Sergeant, his rein over his arm, 
 stepped forward, presenting a large letter sealed 
 in blue wax. At the same time Dumain said in 
 Spanish: "Be under no apprehension. I will ex- 
 plain." 
 
 The priest opened the letter and read slowly. 
 Then he turned to the Sergeant with a solemn 
 half-bow. 
 
274 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I think I understand," he said gravely. 
 
 The Sergeant, embarrassed, asked if there was 
 an answer. 
 
 The priest thought for a moment or two. 
 
 "No, no answer/' he decided. 
 
 Without another word the Sergeant and his 
 comrade saluted, mounted, and rode off. 
 
 "This letter is too peremptory to require an 
 answer," said the priest calmly to Dumain. "Be- 
 sides " he hesitated. "You are " 
 
 "I come from Father Emanuele," answered 
 the other in Spanish; "I am a Jesuit." 
 
 He handed him his note. 
 
 "Ah, yes; I see," said the Penitente Father in 
 the Spanish of the Valley, opening the note. 
 
 When he had read it, he took Dumain by the 
 hand. 
 
 "Welcome, you too are holy," he said; and 
 leaning forward kissed him on the cheek. 
 
 Then he tapped the Captain's letter with his 
 finger again and said: "I could not send a lie 
 for an answer; and I do not see why he should 
 prevent our celebration." 
 
 "I was afraid you would be frightened," said 
 Dumain. 
 
 "Ah, no; we are too much in earnest. I doubt 
 if I could persuade my people to give it up now; 
 and as it is, it is only to put it a few hours earlier. 
 We will do it at sunrise. But come, let me bring 
 
FATHER CHUCHO WARNED 275 
 
 you where you can see my flock together, or 
 at least the most holy of them." 
 
 He led Dumain by the hand towards the larg- 
 est of the adobe houses. 
 
 The door opened into a big dark room where 
 a number of people sat on the ground in silence. 
 The light from without fell on a highly colored 
 plaster Pieta on the wall opposite. As his eyes 
 grew used to the dusk, he could see on the other 
 wall a similar plaster crucifix with Mary and 
 John. The only furniture was a rough wooden 
 cupboard. He now made out about a dozen 
 squalid men and women with bright eyes. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus spoke to one crouching 
 figure, a woman who seemed very old; and she 
 bade a young girl fetch seats for the priests. The 
 girl going into the porch brought a wooden 
 bench. She was a pretty girl in a low-necked 
 red waist. 
 
 "She is his sweetheart," whispered the priest 
 to Dumain. 
 
 For some time no one said anything. Some of 
 them seemed to be praying. 
 
 At last Maria de Jesus announced: "This is 
 a good Father of the Holy Society of Jesus, who 
 has been sent here by the good Father Emanuele 
 to encourage us in our holy undertaking." 
 
 The old woman after a moment or two replied: 
 "The Blessed Virgin and the Blessed Archangel 
 San Rafael bless all good Catholics." 
 
276 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 They all made the sign of the cross and mur- 
 mured "Amen." 
 
 "She is the mother of the young man who is 
 to receive the sacred Stigmata," explained the 
 priest aside. 
 
 "I I must congratulate you on the piety of 
 your son," Dumain forced himself to say. 
 
 "The Holy Child gave me him and I devote 
 him to the Lord," fervently responded the old 
 woman. 
 
 "She is like blessed Hannah," chanted another 
 woman from a dark corner. 
 
 "They are all fasting," explained Maria de 
 Jesus to Dumain. "To-morrow is Sunday, and 
 then of course we eat; and Monday is our holy 
 feast." 
 
 Dumain now said: "Does the Father mention 
 the soldiers in his letter?" 
 
 "I will see;" and he consulted the letter. 
 
 "Yes. But he says he trusts they will not dis- 
 turb us." 
 
 "That is strange," says Dumain, "after their 
 message. The Government you know does not 
 altogether understand your mode of conferring 
 the Stigmata. It fears the danger of some one 
 dying." 
 
 "What is more precious than a death in God!" 
 responded the priest. "But no soldiers should 
 stop us." 
 
FATHER CHUCHO WARNED 277 
 
 "However, you will wait as the Father says, 
 for his advice about going on?" 
 
 "Ah, yes; we have great faith in Father Eman- 
 uele. Once before he warned us to postpone 
 our festival. But now the time is so near, I 
 doubt if my people could be persuaded to give 
 it up. Unless, indeed, God should take the 
 young man to him by a miracle before Monday. 
 But I will send Pasco down into the Valley with 
 you." 
 
 As soon as there was a pause in this conver- 
 sation, a voice thin and quavering, from the far 
 end of the room, said: "Perhaps the strange 
 Father will pray with us for the success of our 
 holy enterprise." 
 
 Dumain, kneeling on the ground floor before 
 the bench, prayed with all the spirit he could 
 summon and in words as ambiguous as he might 
 safely make them. During the prayer the lis- 
 teners many times made the sign of the cross, 
 and at the end said "Amen" with fervor. 
 
 This seemed a good chance to leave. At the 
 door Dumain turned and gave them his blessing 
 with more real feeling than he had been able to 
 put into the prayer. 
 
 The priest went into the porch with him. On 
 the ground beyond, the sunlight lay bright and 
 hot. 
 
 "If you will wait here in the shade, I will fetch 
 
278 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Pasco. I hope you will come to us on Monday/' 
 he said. 
 
 "I fear I shall not be in the Valley so long. 
 But if I can, I will find out at what hour that 
 morning' the soldiers march, and let you know. 
 You had best not go on unless they get here 
 after " 
 
 "Oh, I shall not go on," said the other, "unless 
 the Father tells me to. He will know. And in 
 any case we shall now begin before dawn." 
 
 He went out into the sunlight to find Pasco. 
 As Dumain waited, the pretty girl slipped out 
 into the porch. 
 
 "I want you to do something for me," she 
 said, softly, coming to him with great trustful 
 eyes. 
 
 He remembered that she was the sweetheart 
 of the creature under the cross. 
 
 "Yes, you want me " 
 
 "To pray for him," she said fervently. 
 
 "That he may may " 
 
 "That he may not falter," she said with ardor; 
 "that he may be a noble and willing sacrifice." 
 
 A fine flush of feeling spread under her dark 
 skin down into her very bosom. With parted 
 lips she vanished into the darkness of the house. 
 
 The Jesuit in the warmth of the porch, shiv- 
 ered. 
 
 He moved his lips silently, and made the sign 
 of the cross. 
 
XXXII 
 
 A PRISONER IN THE PRIEST'S HOUSE 
 
 ATER Fay had left the house to go 
 on her errand, the Senorita Tecla soon 
 came back into the kitchen. Pausing at 
 the top of the three steps she exclaimed: "The 
 Father did not call me- Oh/' she said, "she is 
 gone. I found him still asleep, but he is getting 
 up now. I must take his breakfast in to him." 
 
 She bustled about, preparing it. 
 
 Dolores turned again from the window where 
 she had once more been peering out, and with 
 an abstracted stare watched her hostess. 
 
 "I wonder what that deceitful girl meant by 
 telling me that?" pondered Tecla. "She drives 
 me to the end of my patience," she went on, 
 pausing in her task. "She's a Mormon, you 
 know." 
 
 For answer Dolores merely tossed her head 
 superciliously. 
 
 "The trouble and worry she causes me," 
 pursued Tecla, taking up her tray. 
 
 After she had hurried from the room, Dolores, 
 left alone, yawned two or three times, and finally 
 sank into one of the kitchen chairs, where she 
 soon dozed a little bit. Before long, awaking 
 with a start, and finding herself still alone, she 
 sat for a while in reverie. Then getting up, she 
 
 279 
 
280 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 wandered over to the outer door, and opening 
 it, stood there a minute or two, leaning on the 
 post, at the edge of the sunshine. After a while 
 she went a few steps out into the bare yard, and 
 after looking aimlessly about, tried by standing 
 on tiptoe to look over the high fence. Finding 
 this impossible she strolled back to the house, 
 and was standing again leaning in the doorway, 
 in the large morning silence, when hearing a 
 hand on the other door, she glided in, and softly 
 shut her door behind her. 
 
 It was Tecla again. She came down the steps 
 and took a chair. 
 
 "Would you like to see the church?" she asked 
 amicably, raising her old eyes to her guest. 
 
 Dolores shook her head with disdain. 
 
 Pursing her lips a little, Tecla opened a black 
 book she had brought in with her, and said a 
 shade more coolly: "The Father is not feeling 
 well enough to say his mass this morning, so 
 I am going to read some prayers. Would you 
 like to read with me?" 
 
 Again Dolores shook her head. 
 
 "You can read?" queried Tecla. 
 
 "Of course I can," cried the girl, waking up. 
 "I'm sick of prayers. Father Chucho mumbled 
 them all the way down." 
 
 She fixed a firm look of defiance on Tecla. 
 
 "Are you a Catholic?" said that good woman 
 frigidly. 
 
A PRISONER IN THE PRIEST'S HOUSE 281 
 
 "Yes, I am," sneered the girl, mockingly; "as 
 good a one as you." 
 
 "You said you hoped the soldiers would stop 
 the sacred festival of the " 
 
 "Sacred festival!" jeered Dolores. "Sacred 
 murder! Indians!" 
 
 Tecla started in pious horror, but she persisted 
 firmly : "Father Maria de Jesus says you are very 
 sinful; and now you refuse to pray." 
 
 Dolores gave a shout of exasperation, her face 
 fairly blazing, and then stopped short, turned 
 her back to Tecla, and with a swing of the hips 
 started towards the outside door. 
 
 "Where are you going?" gasped Tecla, jump- 
 ing up. 
 
 Dolores turned again. "I'm tired of all of 
 you," she said, bitterly, and with a wicked look. 
 "I'm going to see the soldiers." 
 
 "Indeed you're not!" cried Tecla hotly. 
 
 Both made a simultaneous spring towards the 
 door, but as the girl tried to pull it open Tecla, 
 leaning her whole frail weight against it, suc- 
 ceeded in turning the key and drawing it from 
 the lock. 
 
 "Indeed you won't," she repeated, panting 
 with excitement and rage. Her usually pale face 
 was red with her exertion. 
 
 Dolores, standing close to her, glared at her, 
 clenching her teeth. Her hands worked ner-- 
 
282 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 vously. They were so near they felt each other's 
 breath. 
 
 There was something in the old woman's eyes 
 as strong* as Dolores. The girl fell back a step 
 or two. 
 
 "I'm not a prisoner !" she exclaimed, affecting 
 a laugh. "I will go out when I want to." 
 
 Tecla continued to pant and pant. 
 
 At last she said, "You will not!" 
 
 Dolores compressed her lips and glanced from 
 right to left. She tapped with her foot on the 
 floor. 
 
 "If you go now, you shan't have your money. 
 If you go now, you shan't come back." 
 
 "I shall have my money," cried Dolores pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 "The priest told me to keep you." 
 
 "Curse him," cried Dolores in a fury. 
 
 She looked again fixedly at her persecutor; 
 her bosom heaved and fell; her cheeks were red, 
 but her lips were gray. With a sudden turn, she 
 ran straight for the other door. "I will go out 
 when I wish," she exclaimed. 
 
 Tecla started after her. 
 
 At this moment that door opened, and Fay 
 Grady appeared. While the other two, recoiling 
 slightly, stood for an instant fixed, she regarded 
 them with a gaze of mild wonder. Dolores, 
 scenting another possible opponent, eyed her 
 narrowly. Seizing this chance, Tecla, with a ner- 
 
A PRISONER IN THE PRIEST'S HOUSE 
 
 vous* dash, darted past her, and stumbling up the 
 three steps, almost knocking Fay down, she had 
 slammed the door from the outside and locked 
 it before they quite realized her move. 
 
 Fay's mouth dropped somewhat; she con- 
 tinued to stare wonderingly at the other girl. 
 
 Dolores shrugged her shoulders, and again 
 laughed coldly. 
 
 "Fool!" she exclaimed. "Don't stand there 
 like a cow." 
 
 To this Fay returned rather a scornful glance. 
 
 "I will go out when I want," proclaimed the 
 other. 
 
 "I ain't no more of a fool than you are," said 
 Fay with her usual self-poise. "I can go out 
 whenever I feel like, without her knowing it, if 
 I want to." 
 
 "How do you do it?" asked Dolores, almost 
 mildly. 
 
 "You can go out easy at night," suggested 
 Fay. 
 
 "I'll go now if I want," repeated the other. 
 "I'll go and see the soldiers, whenever I want." 
 
 As she paced restlessly about, she put her foot 
 against a chair, and petulantly pushed it over. 
 
 Fay turned her head to look at it where it 
 lay, and then gave her equable attention again to 
 Dolores, and remarked: "It wouldn't do no good 
 to go now. They're all pretty mad." 
 
 This seemed to strike Dolores. But after a 
 
284 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 moment of thought she announced, "I warvt to 
 see them." 
 
 "They ain't so much to see," said Fay. 
 
 Dolores looked her over, up and down; and 
 then asked: "Did you send my letter?" 
 
 "Yes, I put it in the box," replied Fay. 
 
 The other girl considered again. 
 
 "Don't you believe she'd let me come back if 
 I went out?" she asked. 
 
 "No, I don't. I know she wouldn't," said Fay. 
 
 "I could get my money, anyhow." 
 
 Fay gazed at her with the vacant look of one 
 who has no opinions. 
 
 Dolores pouted and frowned, thinking. 
 
 "Well, I'll stay till to-night, anyway," she 
 announced. 
 
 The key of the inner door was heard being 
 turned in the lock. 
 
 Tecla, after flying from the kitchen, had has- 
 tened to her brother's study to lay before him 
 the case of the rebellious new-comer; but finding 
 him occupied with Dumain, she had discreetly 
 closed his study door again and waited in the 
 hall. Her excitement cooled somewhat while 
 she waited, an,d when the two priests appeared 
 and the Jesuit, politely bowing to her, left the 
 house, she was ready to listen to her brother's 
 request for her to put up a lunch and have the 
 wagon hitched; but though dutifully she set out. 
 
A PRISONER IN THE PRIEST'S HOUSE 285 
 
 to arrange this, without telling him now about 
 Dolores, it was with misgivings that she returned 
 to the kitchen and unlocked the prison. 
 
 She found Dolores also much calmer, but 
 when the girl, with haughty silence, came di- 
 rectly towards her, Tecla was alert to set her 
 shoulders once more against the door, and to 
 demand where she was going. 
 
 "I'm going up to my room," returned Dol- 
 ores, superciliously. "I'm sleepy. I suppose I 
 can do that?" 
 
 There was no deceit in this bold front, and 
 Tecla, making way for her to pass, waited only 
 to watch her actually going up the stairway, and 
 then turned with her orders to Fay Grady. 
 
 An hour later, when Dumain had been sped 
 off to San Rafael, Tecla bethought herself again 
 of her new charge, and creeping up the stairs and 
 through the passage way, she laid her ear to the 
 closed door of the front room she had assigned 
 to Dolores. There was no sound to be heard. 
 Craftily turning the key in the lock, Tecla was 
 creeping away again, when she heard some one 
 flying to the door, throwing herself against it, 
 trying the knob again and again, and pounding 
 and kicking. Tecla went back to the door and 
 said sternly: "You'd better keep still." 
 
 Her only answer was a torrent of hot words, 
 so awful that she shrank away and hastily re- 
 treated downstairs. As she went she heard loud 
 
286 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 and passionate sobbing from behind the door, 
 and then more pounding. Directly followed 
 such a tearing shriek as made her shudder, and 
 after that at intervals came agonizing screams, 
 like the cries of a child insane with anger. Dur- 
 ing an hour or more these distressing sounds 
 continued, shrill and heart-rending. Fay Grady 
 paid no attention to them whatever. Tecla would 
 jump at each succeeding one, put her fingers to 
 her ears, sigh, and press her lips tighter. Father 
 Emanuele, sick as he was, seemed too torpid to 
 be disturbed by the noise, though he did ask his 
 .sister what it meant, and even asked her if she 
 hadn't better release the girl and let her go her 
 way. 
 
 Tecla steeled herself against such a surrender, 
 but ultimately her nerves w r ere so wrought upon 
 by the screams that she was on the point of giv- 
 ing in, when all at once they ceased. So great 
 seemed the silence, that she presently stole up 
 to the door again, fearing that in some way the 
 girl might have escaped. After listening a few 
 moments, regular heavy breathing seemed to 
 indicate that she was asleep. 
 
 Nothing more was heard from her all day. 
 Venturing up with some supper, Tecla made 
 sure the prisoner was still sleeping before she 
 gently unlocked the door and slid in the tray. 
 And when she went to bed, there was still no 
 sound from that room. 
 
XXXIII 
 DEVLIN RETURNS 
 
 DELOSS DEVLIN belonged in the East, 
 or at any rate what is considered the 
 East in Colorado, and he had intended 
 going back there soon after his visit to the Jesuit 
 College in Denver. But as he had nothing to 
 do, and as he knew that, though he was by no 
 means an invalid, the tonic air of Colorado was 
 considered good for him, he had lingered several 
 weeks longer. It was only on the 2Oth of Octo- 
 ber that, suddenly remembering tliat the feast of 
 San Rafael came in four days, he as suddenly 
 realized that it was his unusual interest in the 
 Penitentes that had kept him so long in that re- 
 gion. As he thought of them again, he was once 
 more singularly moved. Curiosity, if not sym- 
 pathy, drew him back to the great placid sun- 
 shine of the San Luis Valley. Idler that he was, 
 there was no reason not to go whither he would. 
 His cousin's ranch was almost in the very 
 shadow of Blanca, only a few miles from An- 
 tonito. He would go see what the Jesuits had 
 really thought to do, if anything. He tele- 
 graphed to his cousin. 
 
 Next day came an answer that none of the 
 family was in the Valley. But his mind was now 
 
 287 
 
288 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 set; and remembering the one-eyed host at An- 
 tonito, he took the train, and arrived the day 
 after the soldiers and Dumain. 
 
 After the precipitate departure of the Mor- 
 mons, Alfred Stange had spent the greater part 
 of the day reading a torn French novel he found 
 in the bar. He was sitting there, with a glass of 
 beer on the table beside him, poring over the 
 last pages, that afternoon, when he almost sub- 
 consciously heard the clanging and wheezing of 
 the train, and its final decreasing roar and hum, 
 off into the silence. A minute or two later he 
 heard a strange voice talking to Wezel outside 
 the open front door. Raising his eyes languidly 
 from his book, he could not, from where he sat, 
 see who- it was, nor could he catch the talk. 
 Again a minute or so, and he looked up to have 
 a glimpse of a young man crossing before the 
 door of the bar-room, and heard him go- up- 
 stairs. Then Wezel limped into the room and 
 got the precious register off the bar. To a ques- 
 tion of Stange's, he only wheezed an unintelli- 
 gible reply as he limped out again; but when he 
 presently returned and deposited the book in its 
 place, he shufHed over the ink-tracked leaves, 
 and running his finger along the line, read aloud: 
 "D E Deloss Devlin. That's who he is. 
 Why, he's been here before." 
 
 "Who is the gent?" Stange asked, getting up, 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 289 
 
 and kicking the stiffness out of his knees, as he 
 went over to see. 
 
 "I don't know who he is," said Wezel. "He 
 was here one day a month or so gone, and asked 
 me questions about the Penitentes, 's if I was a 
 witness on the stand; and then he went over to 
 see old Emanuele. And now this time, the first 
 thing he asks me, 'Is there any Jesuits here?' ' 
 
 "Any!" said Stange. "One's enough. What 
 does he want? Whole schools of 'em?" 
 
 "Maybe he might be one hisself," suggested 
 Wezel, coughing. 
 
 Stange put one hand to his head with a thea- 
 tric gesture of despair, and sighed. 
 
 "Gee! It was bad enough when only Luke 
 was with us! But I guess I'll go up and advise 
 Dan about this." 
 
 With his hands in his pockets, he strolled up 
 to Houghteling's room and kicked on the door. 
 The Captain was at a small table, busily writing. 
 
 "What do you want?" he said rather curtly, as 
 Stange idled in, whistling, and banged the door 
 to with his foot. 
 
 "A cheerful greeting first, Danny," replied 
 Alfie, pleasantly. "You are so- good-humored. 
 Do you remember, Emerson says " 
 
 "Cut all that," put in Houghteling. "Don't 
 you see I'm busy?" 
 
 "Can it be!" exclaimed Alfie, raising his two 
 hands. "Well, here's to make you more so." He 
 
290 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 came around in front of his friend and sat on the 
 corner of the table. 
 
 "Get off, you you child!" growled Houghtel- 
 ing* giving him a push that sent him nearly 
 sprawling. 
 
 Stange returned, good-natured as ever, and 
 again sat on the papers on the table. Hough- 
 teling looked up at him with a lurking smile in 
 his vexed black eyes. 
 
 "A young gentleman has just come," began 
 Stange, marking his words with one forefinger, 
 "who is strongly suspected by Peter Wezel and 
 me to be in the hire of the Jesuits, if he is not 
 actually one of those insidious persons himself." 
 
 "Come? From where?" asked the other. 
 
 "From the late arriving train," explained Alfie. 
 "Do you forget we are still in the land of civiliza- 
 tion and progress? How did you suppose he 
 came? In an aeromotor?" 
 
 Houghteling leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "Well, why don't you go to him and find 
 out" 
 
 "Just what I came to inform you I was going 
 to do." 
 
 "You have my permission," said the Captain 
 gravely. 
 
 "Go on!" laughed Stange, and gave his supe- 
 rior officer a light slap on the cheek. 
 
 "Find out what he came for," continued 
 Houghteling, laying a hand on Alfie's knee. 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 291 
 
 "Just what I intended to do," said Stange. 
 
 "And well, for heaven's sake go, and don't 
 bother me." 
 
 Stange laughed again, got up, and with a pass- 
 ing punch between Houghteling's broad shoul- 
 ders, strolled out again. In the dim hallway he 
 stood for a few moments, twisting his yellow 
 mustache consideringly. At last he knocked 
 on the door and then went in. Devlin, 
 who was standing in his undershirt, shaving be- 
 fore a clouded mirror, turned his face half cov- 
 ered with lather. Stange, rubbing one hand over 
 his own jaw, remarked mockingly to himself, 
 "He'll be cutting me out," and as the other stood 
 silent, waiting for him to begin, went on aloud,, 
 hesitating as if a trifle embarrassed: "I hope you 
 will pardon my intruding on your privacy, Mr. 
 Devlin." 
 
 "Don't mention it," answered Devlin, gravely. 
 The lather quite concealed any expression 
 around his mouth. 
 
 "You'd better go on shaving before the soap 
 gets dry," said Stange in his usual good-humored 
 fashion, and sitting down in a chair. "Don't 
 mind me." 
 
 The other young man accordingly turned to- 
 ward the spotty mirror again, and attacked one 
 side of his face gingerly. He scraped for a mo- 
 ment or two, and wiped his razor on a bit of 
 newspaper, before saying: "Is there anything I 
 
292 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 can do for you? I can listen while I shave, even 
 if I can't talk." 
 
 Stange, who had drawn a silver case from one 
 trousers pocket and a loose match or two from 
 the other, went on lighting his. cigarette. He 
 made a motion of offering one to his host, but 
 remarking, "Of course, you can't," put away the 
 case. Then he blew a long whiff or two rather 
 nervously, and finally answered, with a frank 
 look at the other's dim reflection in the smoky 
 mirror: "I did have a speech all made up to 
 spring on you, quite a diplomatic one, too; but 
 
 speeches to ," he paused to inhale and blow 
 
 another whiff. "I believe it pays to be honest. 
 You aren't much older than I am, and as far as I 
 can see, you haven't got that hang-dog, foxy 
 look . The truth is, old man, you're sus- 
 pected of being in with the Jesuit in this game." 
 Alfie looked relieved when this was said, and 
 knocked off his cigarette. 
 
 Devlin finished an up-stroke or two on his 
 throat, and then calmly asked: "What game?" 
 
 Stange laughed. 
 
 "That's good !" he said. "Still," he considered, 
 "this isn't a barracks, is it? I forgot it's a public 
 hotel in a free land, and a chap might come here 
 without having anything to do with the Peni- 
 tentes one way or another. Though God may 
 know what he'd want in this hole, I don't." 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 293 
 
 "You are here, then, about the Penitentes?" 
 asked Devlin. 
 
 "Of course, we are! Of course, we are! Old 
 Dumain wants to persuade us we're not, or at 
 any rate to make out we're not. But we aren't 
 for his diplomatic bluffs; we're United States 
 soldiers, and we're above all subterfuge. We 
 came down here to clean out the crucifiers. And 
 I say, let's do it, and get home." 
 
 Devlin, who was rubbing his reddened chin, 
 shook his head. 
 
 "Oh, you are for 'em, then, are you?" said 
 Stange, quickly. 
 
 "For them? No. What I meant was, it seems 
 awfully cruel to be harsh with them." 
 
 "Ah, hell!" drawled Stange derisively. 
 
 The other reddened a trifle more. 
 
 "However, I see you're not with old Dumain," 
 Stange pursued. "You wouldn't be so candid if 
 you were; and, besides, he has an entirely dif- 
 ferent scheme from yours. But we were sent 
 here to run this circus." 
 
 "I'm really sorry you were," said Devlin. 
 
 Then he plunged his face into his washbowl 
 of water. When he raised it, spluttering, and 
 began to dry it with a towel, Stange asked, as if 
 indifferently: "Why that courteous remark? 
 'Fraid we'll botch it?" 
 
 "I don't know how you happened to be sent 
 here," answered Devlin; "but I have an idea that 
 
294 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 I was the original person to spread the informa- 
 tion of the need there was for something being 
 done to put an end to these crucifixions, and I 
 should feel guilty if I had brought death and 
 destruction down on, those poor, misguided 
 fanatics." 
 
 "Death and destruction, in the shape of me 
 and my like!'* said Stange ironically. "What 
 peaceful method would you have employed to 
 stamp out murder?" 
 
 "I tried to start the peaceful method that 
 seemed best to me," Devlin replied seriously to 
 the banterer. He had put on his shirt and coat, 
 and now sat down opposite Stange. "And that 
 was to inform the Jesuit College about it 
 and " 
 
 "You did?" cried Alfie, sitting bolt upright. 
 "You got old Dumain sent down here?" . 
 
 "I don't know whom they sent. If he's a 
 Jesuit, I suppose I did." 
 
 "You thought that was the best way to put 
 down this thing! Why, even Dumain only wants 
 to make use of us." 
 
 "I did think so," Devlin admitted serenely. 
 
 "Well of all " Alfie jumped up "asinine, 
 short-sighted " 
 
 Devlin jumped up too, now fiery red. "I'll 
 be damned!" he said, and glared at Alfie. 
 
 Stange at once melted in laughter. "Hell! 
 Don't be mad! old man," he said. "I beg your 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 295 
 
 pardon. I dare say people do have different ways 
 of looking at things." He seized Devlin's reluc- 
 tant hand and shook it. "Have a cigarette." He 
 offered him one, patting him on the back the 
 while. "Come down stairs and have a drink with 
 me. I'm sure you're not in old .Dumain's party." 
 
 Devlin took the cigarette, but while lighting 
 it, shook his head and said: "I'm not so sure. 
 Not till I hear what his party is anyway." 
 
 Again Stange clouded. Patting his breast 
 downward with both hands, he put one inside his 
 blouse and brought out a soiled time-table. As 
 he unfolded it, and ran his ringer down one page, 
 he said: "If you're not sure, you may make more 
 trouble for us; and in that case, I advise you to 
 get out. Dan is sure to suspect you; and if he 
 does, I shall, because I won't be insubordinate. 
 There's a train up at ten-ten; there's one to 
 Creede at midnight, take your choice. But if 
 you stay, and if you aid and abet that Jesuit, I 
 tell you now you're in danger of being put under 
 martial law. And after all," he considered, "I 
 don't see what you're here for unless it is to help 
 him out. We didn't want you. Oh, dear; why 
 are these sly schemers so open and candid? 
 Just let me look if you've got a tonsure." 
 
 "All I came for was, I suppose, idle curiosity," 
 said Devlin, smiling. "I had got up some inter- 
 est in one or two of these people down here, and 
 I thought I'd come and see it out. I had no 
 
296 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 idea you soldiers would be here. But I have no 
 intention of leaving because you are." 
 
 "Good!" cried Stange. "I like that. Well, 
 I'll tell you," he added candidly; "the man who 
 wants them cleaned out with fire and sword is 
 your friend the Jesuit. We only want to block 
 their game." 
 
 Suddenly he put his hand to his ear. "Sh! 
 Didn't I hear a wagon? There's some one com- 
 ing upstairs." After a look out of the window, 
 he exclaimed: "It's Dumain back. You must 
 excuse me. I'll see you later." 
 
 He hurried from the room, leaving Devlin with 
 a smile on his face. Rattling down the stairs to 
 the door, Stange gazed for a, moment or two at 
 a handsome youth with high cheek-bones and 
 straight black hair, who sat in the mule-wagon 
 holding the lines. Then with a sudden decision 
 he went out to him and said, "How are you?" 
 
 The young man, blankly shaking his head, re- 
 plied in Spanish. 
 
 "Hell!" said Alfie. 
 
 Dumain, with his carpet-bag, then reappeared. 
 
 "I've been trying to talk with your friend," 
 says Stange. 
 
 "Oh, he's a Penitente." 
 
 "Come on a visit, I suppose." 
 
 "I believe he's going back in the morning," 
 said Dumain, getting into the wagon. 
 
 "And you are going to leave us, too?" 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 297 
 
 "I am going to stay with Father Emanuele, 
 to-night. He's pretty sick." 
 
 "Well, good-bye. See you again, I hope. Be 
 good!" 
 
 As Stange turned to go in he heard Devlin's 
 voice from above calling, "Oh, Father Dumain!" 
 and as he went up the stairs he met that young 
 man coming down. 
 
 "You will incur suspicion. I warn you," he 
 said jokingly as he passed him. 
 
 He hurried on upstairs and burst into Hough- 
 teling's room. 
 
 "The Jesuit's got a new game! His stunt of 
 talking Spanish before the Sergeant was good; 
 but now he's brought down a dago and has 
 deserted over to Emanuele's camp." 
 
 "Brought down What for?" asked Hough- 
 teling. 
 
 "Well, I couldn't exactly gather why. You 
 know the lucid way he has of explaining things. 
 But I guess it's only a messenger." 
 
 "We must intercept any message they send, 
 and read it," Houghteling spoke decisively. 
 
 "How'll we manage it?" asked Alfie, lighting 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "There's only one spy we can get in that 
 house." 
 
 "Who's that?" 
 
 "Fay Grady, of course." 
 
 "Pretty spy she'd make. Blew once." 
 
298 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "But I don't believe she will again," said 
 Houghteling. "So you'd better see her, Alf, 
 and " 
 
 "Now, look here, Houghteling, I'm done with 
 that girl." 
 
 "You're her friend. You'll have to arrange it." 
 
 "I got you into trouble once through her, 
 hang it." 
 
 "Well, we're rid of the Mormons." 
 
 "I'm likely to do it again," said Alfie hope- 
 lessly. 
 
 "Don't be a fool. Go and arrange." 
 
 "Is it a command?" Alfie wore a very worried 
 look. 
 
 "Yes, sir, it is." 
 
 "Well, wait till the sun is down, Danny," and 
 Alfie leaned back to enjoy his cigarette. 
 
 Suddenly he got up as if a new thought had 
 just struck him. 
 
 "Young Devlin's down there talking to Du- 
 main," he said, and going to the window, added, 
 "Yes, he is! Getting his orders, I guess." 
 
 "Do you think this one is a Jesuit?" asked 
 Houghteling. 
 
 "No, I don't. But I'm hanged if I can see 
 what he came here for." 
 
 "What does he say he came for?" 
 
 "Curiosity," laughed Alfie, wrinkling his brow. 
 "I can imagine a man going to New York out of 
 curiosity, but , He's been here before, too. 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 299 
 
 I wonder if he's gone on Fay Grady. I bet that's 
 it" 
 
 "We must keep an eye on him," said Hough- 
 teling; "as long as he stays here, and the other 
 one there, he's pretty safe, I guess. You might 
 go down, though, and see what they're saying." 
 
 Meanwhile the mule-wagon had drawn up, and 
 Devlin had gone down to it. 
 
 "My name is Devlin," he began. 
 
 Dumain, leaning down from the seat, cordially 
 reached a hand to him. "I am sure, Mr. Dev- 
 lin " 
 
 "It was I who carried the rumor of this cru- 
 cifixion to Father Mansifee " 
 
 "Then," said Dumain, blandly, "you have 
 done a good w r ork." 
 
 "I fear our views about it may not be just the 
 same," suggested Devlin. "These soldiers " 
 
 "Oh, we wanted them sent down, I assure 
 you" 
 
 "They tell me, however, that you and they do 
 not quite agree." 
 
 Dumain sadly shook his head. "They resent 
 suggestions," he said; "which, as they are young, 
 is natural. But their idea of laisser-aller, I must 
 say, seems short-sighted." 
 
 "Surely you would not have them kill these 
 poor misguided people," objected the young 
 man. 
 
300 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "No, no; I do not wish them to be killed. But 
 a a mere proclamation of martial law hardly 
 seems likely to be as useful as a very gentle 
 rout shall I say? However, they tell me they 
 have decided on their plans; and so I shall inter- 
 fere no more. Knowing myself non grata, I am 
 leaving them to their own devices." 
 
 Noting a slight change of voice in the last half 
 of this speech, Devlin glanced behind him, and 
 saw Alfred Stange sauntering towards them. 
 
 "I am sorry to say, sir, that it seems to me 
 they are right." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear you say it," returned Du- 
 main with a bow. "Good evening." 
 
 He touched Pasco on the arm; and the wagon 
 rolled off, as Devlin turned to meet Stange. 
 
 "Well met at Phillipi!" Alfie greeted him; "has 
 the diplomat brought you over to his views?" 
 
 They turned back towards the hotel together. 
 
 "No, he has not," replied Devlin gravely; "I 
 think his views are barbarous. And I am very 
 glad you are not going to change your plans at 
 all for him." 
 
 They halted at the door. 
 
 "Damn dusty country this is," remarked 
 Stange, putting his feet on the bench one after 
 the other, and wiping his shoes with his hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 "He says he is not going to try to interfere 
 with you any more," continued Devlin. 
 
DEVLIN RETURNS 301 
 
 Stange raised his eyebrows at him. "Look 
 here, my young friend," he said, "that sounds 
 suspicious to me. Don't be offended, but I think 
 I shall continue to suspect you." 
 
XXXIV 
 
 A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 
 
 IT WAS not till after supper that Alfred 
 Stange started off on his errand. He left 
 Houghteling and Devlin sitting side by side 
 on the bench, but not conversing very cordially. 
 
 There was a golden moon which shone so 
 brightly that it was very light. All was quiet 
 in Antonito. Somewhere a dog howled once. 
 Stange went straight to the large /ard into which 
 the kitchen opened. Through the window he 
 saw Tecla, Dumain, and the dark youth at sup- 
 per, with Fay Grady in bright green waiting 
 upon them. He noticed how intently she stared 
 with her big gray eyes at the handsome stranger, 
 who hardly took his eyes from her face. The 
 girl looked as stupidly placid as ever. 
 
 He went as near the window as he dared. 
 No one was talking. After what seemed a great 
 while, he heard Tecla say sharply: "Take that 
 in to the Father and see if he wants some." 
 
 Without waiting for more, Stange ran to the 
 fence he had climbed the night before; climbed 
 it now in the opposite direction; and was inside 
 the open front door before Fay reached the 
 door of the study. 
 
 "Oh!" said Fay, startled; and nearly dropped 
 a tea-cup, 
 
 303 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 303 
 
 "I must speak to you." 
 
 Fay now said, "Oh," in her natural drawl. "I 
 didn't know you at first." 
 
 "When can I speak to you?" 
 
 "Now, I guess, if you want to." 
 
 "No, no," said Alfie hastily. "She might come 
 out here. After supper; can I?" 
 
 "Is it important?" drawled Fay. 
 
 "Yes, very. Will you come to the well again?" 
 
 "That don't give no time. And she says I 
 need too much water. If you wait about an 
 hour, I can come in the church." 
 
 "How shall I get in?" 
 
 "It's always open." 
 
 "Well, good-bye; remember!" and he slipped 
 out as fast as he had slipped in. 
 
 He walked out through the garden and to 
 the steps of the church, where he sat in a dark 
 corner, slowly smoking cigarettes, till he had 
 smoked six, before he decided it was time for 
 Fay to be coming. 
 
 She, in the meantime, had given Emanuele his 
 tea, had gone back and finished waiting on the 
 others, and then had had her own supper; while 
 Tecla took the two guests up-stairs to show 
 them to their rooms. After that Fay had washed 
 the dishes as quickly as possible; and had just 
 about finished when Tecla came back to the 
 kitchen, having seen her sick brother safe in 
 bed. 
 
304 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Now/' she said to Fay, "I've been so driven 
 all day I haven't had time to teach you anything. 
 But here is the book and we'll have a little read- 
 ing before I retire." 
 
 Fay slowly dried her plump hands on the dish- 
 towel, without saying anything. 
 
 "Hurry! I'm tired." 
 
 "So am I," answered Fay serenely, hanging 
 up her apron; "and I'm going to bed." 
 
 She marched from the wrathful presence of 
 her mistress with what would have been dignity 
 in a thinner person, if she hadn't stumbled up 
 the three steps. She heard her mistress's sharp 
 voice behind her; but without waiting to hear 
 what it was saying, she shut the door and went 
 upstairs to her own room. Holding the door 
 ajar, she stood there in the dark, till in a few 
 minutes she heard Tecla creep up the stairs and 
 then turn a handle; after that all was still. 
 
 Then Fay left her room and went carefully 
 down the stairs, feeling for each step. Through 
 the study she passed into the sacristy, and so on 
 into the chancel, and down to the body of the 
 dark church. 
 
 "Can any one hear us in here, talking?" asked 
 a voice somewhat muffled. 
 
 "No," answered Fay in her natural tone; 
 "where are you?" 
 
 "Here." 
 
 With her hand outstretched in front of her, 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 305 
 
 Fay cautiously stepped towards the voice and 
 the red glow of the cigarette she could see in the 
 blackness. A hand touched hers. There came a 
 puff of smoke in her face. 
 
 "I can't see you at all," she said in her monot 
 onous fashion. 
 
 Alfie laughed close to her ear. 
 
 "I sympathize with you. But," he went on 
 as if all on business bent, "I must tell you what 
 we want." 
 
 "I ain't goin' to tell no one again anything you 
 say or do," she protested; "Father Dumain told 
 me I dassn't." 
 
 Her voice, though low, was clear and sweet. 
 
 Alfie felt about and grasped one of her hands; 
 then took out his cigarette, put his arm round 
 her, and kissed her a long, long kiss in the dark 
 ness. 
 
 "We want you," he said when he finished, "to 
 get the letter they send to San Rafael; and you 
 mustn't let Dumain know about this. Can 
 you?" he asked, squeezing her warm hand. 
 
 "I don't know, I guess I could;" she didn't 
 squeeze back. 
 
 "Are you sure no one can hear us?" 
 
 "They're all upstairs in bed; and anyway, they 
 couldn't." 
 
 Alfie was beginning to distinguish things in 
 the dark. He drew Fay by the hand into one of 
 the pews. 
 
306 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Let's sit down. Have a cigarette?" he asked, 
 getting another for himself. 
 
 "What would I do with it?" asked Fay. 
 
 He laughed again. "I guess you don't want 
 one. Then you will get it," he went on; "and 
 bring it to us without any one's knowing it . 
 Can you get out this way any time? Bring it to 
 us to read; and then you've got to bring it back 
 and put it where you found it and not let any one 
 at all know; Dumain or anybody. Do you think 
 you can do that?" 
 
 "I reckon so," said Fay. "They've wrote it 
 already. I seen that dark fellow put one in his 
 pocket, and I can go to his room now and get 
 it easy enough, if he is asleep." 
 
 "All right, I'll wait here. But can you get 
 into his room?" he asked, as Fay got up to go. 
 
 "They ain't no key," said Fay simply. 
 
 "Well, I'll wait outside. I don't like it in 
 here." 
 
 He heard her walk away cautiously; and then 
 he went out on the steps. 
 
 Fay Grady meanwhile felt her way into the 
 house and up the stairs. Thinking to go to 
 the room where Pasco was, she stole carefully 
 to that occupied by Dumain. The door was out- 
 lined in light and a ray came through the key- 
 hole. Her eyes opened wider as she saw Dumain 
 stripped to the skin, lustily doing calisthenics. 
 He was a slim, firmly-built man, an evident be- 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 307 
 
 liever in muscular Christianity. She watched 
 him touch his toes forty times without bending 
 his knees, and then as often do the tiring 
 gymnastic feat called by athletes the "squat." 
 
 Then she rose, gingerly holding her skirts to 
 keep them from rustling; and breathing very 
 softly, tiptoed to the other spare room. Here 
 she took the precaution of listening till she could 
 hear the regular breathing of sleep, when she 
 gently pushed open the door and went in. There 
 was enough light to distinguish clothes hanging 
 on a hook. She felt for the coat and took it 
 down. The letter was not in the pocket where 
 she had seen Pasco put it, nor in any of the 
 others. She hung the coat up, and felt in the 
 trousers pockets. No letter there; only some 
 string, a piece of tobacco, and a few small coins. 
 One of these fell rattling on the floor. As she 
 stooped for it, the man in bed waked and sat up. 
 Fay stood quite still. He sat quiet for a moment, 
 then sighed; and lying down, turned over and 
 went to sleep again. 
 
 Fay crept from the room. 
 
 She was starting down-stairs again when she 
 heard the door knob of Dolores's room being 
 violently rattled. For a moment she hesitated. 
 Then going to the door she softly unlocked it. 
 It was immediately pulled open from the in- 
 side. 
 
308 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Sh," said Fay quietly; "you'll wake her up." 
 
 She could see the other girl's figure outlined 
 a.g"ainst the moon-lighted window. 
 
 "I knew it was you," said Dolores in a low 
 tone; "I saw that soldier man come and go in the 
 church, and I heard you coming up.'* 
 
 She did not mention that she had also seen, 
 after Stange had gone into the church, a rider 
 whom she recognized as Cristobal, lurking in the 
 shadows round about and spurring his horse 
 swiftly across the tracts of moonshine; and that 
 she had cautiously called to him, but without 
 making him hear. 
 
 "I want to go down and speak to that soldier," 
 she said, scarcely above her breath. 
 
 "I reckon you can go down if you want to," 
 said Fay. "She's asleep, and I won't never tell." 
 
 "I'm not scared of her," returned Dolores de- 
 fiantly; "but I don't know the way out in the 
 dark. All those doors are locked." 
 
 "No, they ain't," returned Fay; "not goin' 
 into the church." 
 
 "Is he in the church?" 
 
 "No, he's on the steps. He said he didn't like 
 it in there." 
 
 "Bring him in there. I must see him in there. 
 I must see him." 
 
 "I guess you can go outside an' see him, as 
 good as I can," said Fay, moving on. 
 
 Dolores put a hand on her shoulder, which 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 309 
 
 Fay twisted off. "No, no! I must see him in 
 there. I can't go out. Cristobal " 
 
 "Well, I won't tell him to come in," replied 
 Fay, moving off. 
 
 "Why not? You're jealous. You love him." 
 
 "I do not," said Fay firmly. 
 
 "Why won't you, then?" 
 
 "I don't see why I should," said Fay. 
 
 They were at the head of the stairs now, and 
 Fay started down. Again Dolores laid hold of her 
 so tightly that this time she could not escape. 
 
 "I'll tell the man you love the Mormon if 
 you don't," she said tragically. 
 
 Fay laughed inwardly. "You don't know 
 where to find him, and I don't care anyhow." 
 
 "I'll tell Senorita, I'll tell her now, I'll 
 wake her I'll scream." 
 
 "Come on," said Fay, a trifle faster than usual, 
 "I'll bring him in." 
 
 They went down noiselessly together. Telling 
 Dolores to wait, Fay went out through the 
 church. It was warmer outside. She smelled 
 the smoke from Stange's cigarette; he was sit- 
 ting on the dark church steps. 
 
 "Have you got it?" he said. 
 
 "No," answered Fay. 
 
 "Damn it! Why not?" 
 
 "It wasn't in his pockets, any of them," 
 
 "Where was it?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
310 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "A lot of good you are!" 
 
 He got up sullenly and started off without an- 
 other word. 
 
 "Wait a minute," she called after him. 
 
 Alfie hesitated. Then he walked on again a 
 step or two. Then he stopped. Fay came down 
 after him. 
 
 "There's another girl in there," she said, "and 
 she wants to see you." 
 
 "What does she want to see me about?" 
 
 "I don't know. I told her I'd tell you. She's 
 an Indian girl." 
 
 "The hell you say!" he exclaimed curtly; "is 
 she a Penitente?" 
 
 "No, she said she wasn't. But she's been up 
 there. She's an awful girl; she was screaming 
 almost all day." 
 
 "Well, I suppose my duty urges me to inter- 
 view even this virago," said Alfie, professing to 
 speak dejectedly. "Trot her out." 
 
 "She won't come out," replied Fay; "she's 
 waiting for you inside." 
 
 "Ah, I'm sick of church! But come on." 
 
 They went into the church; and a dark figure 
 moved through the darkness toward them. 
 
 "This is the Indian girl," announced Fay, and 
 then moved ponderously away in the gloom. 
 
 Though Stange could not see the instant look 
 of hatred that Dolores flung after her at this, he 
 heard her mutter "Pig! I spit on you, heretic/' 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 3*1 
 
 Then with a voice soft through her rage, she 
 turned to him. "No, no, Sefior; I am not Indian; 
 I am Spanish, Castilian!" 
 
 "Don't mention it," said Stange. 
 
 After rolling a cigarette between his two 
 hands, he struck a match. As the bold little flame 
 flared up, he caught sight for a moment of the 
 great altar, solemn in the dusk, with its crucifix 
 above it. With a sudden impulse he dropped 
 the match and set his heel upon it. 
 
 "Give me one, too," said Dolores softly, touch- 
 ing his hand with hers. 
 
 "No, I won't," he answered curtly; "it isn't 
 decent to smoke in here." 
 
 He drew his hand away from her. 
 
 "Are you a Penitente?" he asked. 
 
 "No, no! I am not." There was a thrill of 
 hate in her deep voice. "I despise them." 
 
 Stange struck another match, and in its light 
 looked curiously on her face. 
 
 "I like to see whom I'm talking to," he ex- 
 plained, dropping the match as it burnt him. 
 
 "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked insinu- 
 atingly, moving closer to him. 
 
 "Pretty enough," replied Stange cavalierly, 
 edging away. 
 
 "Ah, I see," she said softly; "I see why you 
 don't like me." 
 
 "I do like you well enough. I don't know 
 you," answered Stange, a trifle uncomfortable, 
 
312 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Well enough," she repeated with feeling, and 
 laid one soothing hand on his shoulder. 
 
 Stange shook it off. "Come, none of that." 
 
 "I know," she persisted coaxingly, "you are in 
 love with the little fat girl." 
 
 He answered with a hollow laugh, which he 
 followed up rather hotly: "If I were, it doesn't 
 concern you." 
 
 Dolores sighed feelingly. 
 
 "I perhaps I am in love " she hinted. 
 
 "I dare say you are, dozens of times. You 
 seem susceptible." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Come, now; for God's sake, what do you 
 want? I can't stay here forever." 
 
 "I wanted you to do something for me," said 
 Dolores petulantly. 
 
 "Well; out with it." 
 
 "What are you going to do to the Penitentes? 
 Kill them?" 
 
 "No, we're not. Not going to kill one of 
 them." 
 
 "Oh! I thought you would," said Dolores, dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 "Sorry we can't oblige you. Any one you'd 
 specially like killed?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the girl eagerly; "will you? 
 She's wicked, wicked! She's a murderer." 
 
 "She is, indeed? Who is she? Whom did 
 she murder?" 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 313 
 
 "She is murdering- him," pursued Dolores; 
 "Paez, my lover. She prayed to the Saints. She 
 she did, something 1 she made them choose 
 him. He goes round with the big cross on him, 
 and it's crushing him to death; and it's her fault." 
 
 "I see," said Alfie; "we're going to end that 
 part. But you say he's your lover. Isn't there 
 a little jealousy mixed in this?" 
 
 "No, no*! He loved me. He wouldn't look 
 at her. She was jealous. She made them do it. 
 She is a murderer. Will you kill her?" Again 
 she laid an eager hand on his arm. 
 
 "My dear girl, what you want is a policeman. 
 Soldiers don't go round hunting down crimes." 
 
 Dolores paused; then said inquiringly, "No? 
 Don't they?" 
 
 Alfie shook his head in the dark. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you could do it," sighed Do- 
 lores. 
 
 "My dear girl, I'll do anything I can for you 
 in reason. Don't expect me to slay your per- 
 sonal enemies, though. What is her name?" 
 
 "Fanita," said Dolores in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Very well. I'll remember. Now I think you 
 had better go to bed. You're getting nervous." 
 He made a start towards the door. 
 
 Once more he felt her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Here! Quit that, will you?" he exclaimed, 
 shaking her off, and moving faster. 
 
314 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Dolores followed close behind him out on to 
 the steps, 
 
 "Promise," urged Dolores. "Promise, will 
 you?" 
 
 "Promise what?" he asked, exasperated. 
 
 "If you do* anything to them, do it to her 
 too." " 
 
 As they came out Stange had noticed the fig- 
 ure of a man, who was strolling past the church. 
 At the sound of their speaking he had halted; 
 and now a new voice, that of Devlin, broke in on 
 them. 
 
 "Dolores!" 
 
 The girl drew back a little. 
 
 "Good night," said Stange hurriedly, seizing 1 
 his opportunity. "I'll leave you with your 
 friend." As he passed Devlin, he said to> him, 
 "Wish you a pleasant scene. I guess it's safe, 
 you couldn't plot with her on the Penitentes' 
 side; but be careful of your heart." 
 
 He turned and walked quickly back to the 
 hotel. The moon was setting, and the air began 
 to grow a little damper and cooler. 
 
 He found Houghteling sitting in front of the 
 hotel, smoking a pipe. 
 
 "Hello, Dan," said Stange. "The little beast 
 didn't get it." 
 "Did she peach?" 
 
 "No, she didn't peach; but she didn't get the 
 letter. Women are useless creatures, any- 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 315 
 
 way. It's been written. 'Wrote,' as she said." 
 
 "Well have to have it," said the other. "If 
 necessary I'll have the messenger seized as he 
 takes it back." 
 
 "What's the extra guard for?" asked Stange, 
 sitting down by him. 
 
 "Those Mormons are on my mind." 
 
 "Ho!" said Stange, "I bet they've forgotten 
 us. 'Quick to wrath ', you know." 
 
 "This quarrel was about a woman," said 
 Houghteling gravely. 
 
 "So it was, clever lad! Well, I never expect 
 to see them again. 
 
 "I'm not so sure," said Houghteling. 
 
 "By the way," Alfie began, after a pause; 
 "there is another girl there, too. I don't like 
 her." 
 
 "Who is she?" Houghteling asked. 
 
 "Kind of a Penitente reconcentrada, I should 
 say. Hates 'em like sin more than sin, proba- 
 bly. Regular tragedy actress." 
 
 "Why didn't you get her to get the letter." 
 
 "No<, sir! Give me a slow, quiet girl for a 
 job like that. Fay's clumsy, but " 
 
 "She didn't get it." 
 
 "She didn't let anybody in that she was trying 
 to. This neurotic damsel might have got into 
 Dumain's room and had the letter in her hand, 
 but I swear before she brought it out, I believe 
 
316 THE'PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 she'd have waited and waked him up so as to use 
 her wiles to get him to kiss her." 
 
 "Did she get you to?" 
 
 "She did not! When a girl is too* anxious to 
 have a kiss from yours truly, she generally gets 
 thrown down. I tell you those ! I may be old- 
 fashioned, but I think it's a prerogative of the 
 gentleman to make the advances." 
 
 It was some little while after this when Stange 
 remarked: "By the way, Dan, it seems to me 
 you're careless about our suspicious friend, Dev- 
 lin." 
 
 "He's up in his room," said Houghteling. 
 
 "Oh, is he? Then his double's down there by 
 the church flirting with that warm-hearted girl." 
 
 Houghteling jumped up and looked toward 
 the second-story windows. "There's a light in 
 his room. He went up there while I was seeing 
 about the guard." 
 
 "I repeat my last remark," said Alfie, care- 
 lessly. "He gave you the slip." 
 
 "Then you better go back and see what he's 
 doing." 
 
 "Oh, hell, Dan! I'm tired. I've been run- 
 ning your errands all day long." 
 
 While Stange leaned back comfortably against 
 the house-front, Houghteling tacitly started 
 down the road. In a moment Stange was after 
 him, and flinging both arms about his Captain 
 
A SEARCH FOR A LETTER 
 
 almost had pulled him backward off his feet. 
 "Go on home!" he said to him with mock 
 sternness. "Of course I'll go." 
 
 Fay, on leaving the church, went slowly up 
 stairs, retracing her way through the darkness. 
 
 The light still shone from Dumain's room. 
 With an instinctive impulse she picked her way 
 there again, holding her breath and feeling 
 along the wall. She was a little giddy from so 
 much walking in the dark. As before, she kneeled 
 and looked in. Dumain, in a white night-gown, 
 sat by his table writing. By looking intently she 
 could see that there was a heavy black mono- 
 gram on one sheet of paper, which he twice held 
 up under the lamp, and read carefully. He shook 
 his head in doubt. Then he set to work writing. 
 At last she saw him blot his writing, tear the 
 monogram sheet in two, fold another one and 
 put it into an envelope, and then get up and put 
 the envelope and the torn letter, as she could just 
 see by holding her head very low, into the pocket 
 of a coat hanging near the door. 
 
 As soon as she had seen this, Fay softly crept 
 to her own room; where she undressed in the 
 dark and was very soon asleep. 
 
XXXV 
 
 A DESPERATE LOVER 
 
 ATER Dolores had scrutinized Devlin from 
 her dark corner of the church steps she 
 knew him, and with her finest mincing air 
 she came down the steps into the fading moon- 
 light. 
 
 "How are you, Dolores/' he began; "what are 
 you doing here? Do you remember me? I re- 
 cognized your voice. What has become of your 
 lover, Cristobal, wasn't it? Have you married 
 him?" 
 
 "No," said Dolores; and added discreetly, 
 "what are you doing here? You haven't told 
 any one about about him? Cristobal?" 
 
 "No, indeed. He's safe, for me. I came down 
 here to see what they're going to do about the 
 Penitentes." 
 
 "I wish they would kill them!" cried Dolores. 
 
 "Oh, no ! don't say that. What have they done 
 to you?" 
 
 "I was up there," she said, nodding her head 
 ominously. "They stole my lover from me. 
 They are going to crucify him. Only, I won't 
 let them. The soldiers won't let them." 
 
 "Your lover," he repeated; "Cristobal?" 
 
 "No, not him." Dolores shot a flashing glance 
 
 318 
 
A DESPERATE LOVER 319 
 
 over his shoulder, and he turned to see what she 
 saw. But all he found was the yellowish moon 
 caught in the tree-tops. 
 
 "He follows me around," said Dolores, dis- 
 dainfully, folding her bare arms. 
 . ''I thought you promised to marry him." 
 
 She gave him a strange, defiant look, and 
 tossed her head. "The Padre told me not to. I 
 am a good Catholic. He is a murderer." 
 
 Once more she peered over his shoulder, and 
 then called, "Cristobal! Come here." 
 
 Devlin, turning to look again, made out a 
 horse and rider lurking in the shadow. 
 
 "Come," repeated the girl. 
 
 Slowly the horse approached them. 
 
 "Oh, come on," she called tauntingly; "don't 
 be a coward. He won't hurt you; he's not a 
 soldier." 
 
 The horseman drew hesitatingly nearer. Dev- 
 lin would not have known him. Cristobal had 
 let his black beard grow, and it covered half his 
 face. Over his gray store trousers he wore a 
 pair of shaps. 
 
 "Don't be scared," the girl continued her 
 mocking encouragement. "The moon is gone. 
 It's dark now. Put away your gun." 
 
 It was not yet so dark but that they caught 
 the shimmer of the revolver in his hand. 
 
 "The soldiers!" Cristobal exclaimed in Span- 
 ish, edging away from them on his horse 
 
320 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 She answered him in English. "There ain't 
 any here now; and anyway they won't hurt you; 
 they don't go for murderers. They told me so." 
 
 "Don't say that," said Cristobal vehemently, 
 always in Spanish. "Who is he?" and he pointed 
 to Devlin. 
 
 "You remember," she replied; "he's the man 
 who loaned you his horse the day you murdered 
 Anunciato." 
 
 She had not finished speaking when Cristobal, 
 digging his spurs into his horse, sprang away 
 from them. 
 
 "Oh, come back," called the girl impatiently; 
 "he hasn't told." 
 
 A little beyond them in the deeper shadow he 
 drew in his horse, but hesitated. 
 
 "I won't hurt you," Devlin assured him. 
 
 Again he turned the horse and came towards 
 them cautiously. 
 
 "Put up your pistol, or I won't talk to you," 
 commanded Dolores. 
 
 Silently he obeyed her. 
 
 "Now," she said, laying one hand on his bridle, 
 "what have you come for, anyway?" 
 
 Cristobal began blankly in Spanish. 
 
 "Speak English," she bade him, with a stamp 
 of her foot. 
 
 "Lola! You told me to come," he stammered. 
 
 At this Dolores burst into laughter, a long, 
 
A DESPERATE LOVER 3 21 
 
 ringing peal. When she hesitated for breath, 
 she began again. 
 
 Cristobal dismounted, and seizing her by the 
 two hands, said: "You will come this time, Lola: 
 you must." 
 
 Stopping short in the midst of her laughter, 
 she answered: "I will not, if I don't want to." 
 
 "This is his fault," muttered Cristobal angrily, 
 nodding his head toward Devlin., 
 
 "Why, I haven't seen her till now." 
 
 "It is not," said Dolores. "I don't care about 
 him. Let me go." 
 
 She struggled, but the man still held her tight- 
 ly by the hands. 
 
 "Then you have a lover there! Those sol- 
 diers," he insisted, falling into Spanish again. 
 
 She pulled more fiercely to get from him, 
 speaking brokenly as she twisted with nervous 
 anger to break away. "How can I help it who 
 loves me. Let me go! I hate you!" 
 
 She began to sob with anger; she stamped on 
 his foot. 
 
 "You told me to come," he gasped, "to come 
 and get you." He was panting as hard as 
 Dolores. 
 
 As he dragged her toward his horse, she 
 wailed, "Let me go!" and suddenly spat at him. 
 
 Devlin stepped forward. 
 
 "Let her go," he said peremptorily. 
 
 "Let me go!" shrieked the girl passionately. 
 
322 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Dropping her hands, Cristobal seized his re- 
 volver. 
 
 Dolores was rubbing her wrists. "You have 
 hurt me," she panted; "I hate you." Then see- 
 ing his stealthy movement: "Be careful. Here 
 comes one of the soldiers!" 
 
 Sure enough, in the momentary pause they 
 made at this, they could hear some one coming 
 whistling along the road; and as they glanced 
 to see, Dolores and Devlin recognized Alfred 
 Stange in the half darkness. 
 
 Cristobal's hesitation was but for an instant. 
 
 "It is your lover," he said in a tone low with 
 fury. "I will kill him." 
 
 "There are fifty more," cried Dolores, spring- 
 ing toward him. "They will catch you if you 
 shoot. They will hang you. Hurry. Go!" 
 
 He faltered. Then he turned and hastily 
 mounted; and while he called back his farewell 
 tremulous with wrath, "I'll show them. You'll 
 see," his horse had sprung away. 
 
 They heard him galloping off, farther and 
 farther. 
 
 "Aha! here you are!" came the cheery voice 
 of Stange. "Well, well! What a time you've 
 been having. Your friend seems excited." 
 
 He could hear the girl still panting from the 
 shock of the scene she had been through. 
 
 "Anything wrong?" Alfie continued. 
 
 "No, I don't think anything is just at present," 
 
A DESPERATE LOVER 
 
 replied Devlin, in a voice rather constrained. 
 
 Dolores turned on her heel and started toward 
 the church. 
 
 "Dolores, wait a minute," Devlin called after 
 her. 
 
 "The Captain just sent me down to see that 
 you weren't plotting against us," explained 
 Stange to him. "That wasn't old Dumain on 
 the fiery charger?" 
 
 "No, no! I haven't seen him this evening. 
 That was some affair of this foolish girl's." 
 
 "Gad! how many lovers has she?" asked 
 Stange; "and always room for one more! Well, 
 if you a when you've bidden her good-night 
 just stroll back our way, will you? Thanks. 
 Sorry to disturb you." 
 
 As Stange left him, Devlin hurried after the 
 girl. 
 
 "Dolores," he said earnestly, overtaking her 
 at the door of the church. "You must be careful. 
 He might kill you. Don't play with a man that 
 way . He " 
 
 "Ah, he can't do anything," replied Dolores 
 scornfully. "Not that." With a snap of her 
 fingers, she disappeared into the church. 
 
 To Houghteling, who still sat on the bench 
 in front of the hotel, smoking his pipe in the 
 starlight, Stange returned with the assurance, 
 
324 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "He's all right. The game he was in this time 
 wasn't war. He's coming right along." 
 
 "What were they doing?" asked the other. 
 "They made a ghastly noise. Was that your 
 friend, Miss Grady?" 
 
 "No, that was the wild girl. I didn't quite 
 understand the game. Recriminations of a rancid 
 love affair, I think. She seems to have a good 
 many." 
 
XXXVI 
 
 HE PLOTS WITH WIVVERS 
 
 CRAZED with his burning passion and this 
 bitter ending to the love he had cher- 
 ished so desperately, and with the blind 
 rage he could not spill out spoiling within him 
 till it became a poisonous, cursed thing, Cris- 
 tobal galloped on wildly, not knowing what road 
 he was taking. Grinding his teeth and cursing 
 inwardly, he would plunge his spurs into the 
 horse, which, already reeking with sweat, tore on 
 madly. 
 
 The moon had set; but the vivid congregation 
 of stars shed a pallid light upon the level face 
 of the Valley. Against the black sky there was a 
 tremendous shape of more utter black, directly 
 in front of the horse and rider, the sleepless 
 shape of Mount Blanca. Cristobal in his ecstacy 
 of anger, never noticed this voiceless sign; and 
 the fagged horse, forced to its final efforts, inter- 
 minably galloping, galloping on with its eyes 
 on the endless road, never raised them to the 
 mountain. But a sign it was that their mad way 
 lay towards the northwest, towards the village 
 of the Saints. 
 
 As they tore along through the huge, arid 
 night with its oppressive silence, scenes arose in 
 
 325 
 
326 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Cristobal's brain; each clear and distinct, but 
 lasting only an instant, and each chasing the 
 other, as the lights of a railway train flash in 
 succession through the darkness. First was the 
 memory of the little adobe house of Dolores. 
 The shadow of its veranda lay clean and black 
 on the morning sunlight. Anunciato, whom he 
 had murdered, sat by him on the bench. From 
 within came the droning of the Padre and the 
 querulous voice of the dying woman. Dolores 
 flirting a brilliant pictured fan, and with a lace 
 mantilla on her pretty head, strutted, in her bare 
 feet, before them. 
 
 Next he saw himself riding in the night, 
 riding just as he now rode beneath the starlight. 
 He shivered, as it flashed through him that once, 
 some time, he had been riding exactly thus be- 
 fore. 
 
 Then he was inside the house, digging in the 
 darkness. The little padre, kneeling before a 
 couple of lighted candles, prayed droningly. He 
 himself dug in the dark; he heard the sand fall 
 lisping from his spade: he shrank against the 
 wall as the edge struck the body of Anunciato, 
 whom he had murdered. Suddenly he was on 
 the hill-slope that leads to San Rafael. He was 
 waiting there in strange garments, and Dolores 
 came out from a house to talk to him, Dolores 
 with her voice changed and cold, but the same 
 pretty Dolores. And he was about to take her 
 
HE PLOTS WITH WIVVERS 327 
 
 away with him on his horse; and then came the 
 little Padre through the night, and drove him 
 away. And he cursed the little Padre and the 
 Penitentes. 
 
 And he remembered two laughing soldiers, 
 and a strange man who spoke Spanish and who 
 promised to send soldiers to kill the Penitentes 
 and the Padre. 
 
 At this his curses broke out again. The sol- 
 diers! The soldiers had come. But before that 
 Dolores had left the Penitentes, and she had sent 
 for him to come and get her. But her head had 
 been turned by the soldiers. 
 
 All at once, he was startled by a loud voice 
 in front of him, crying some peremptory word. 
 He drew up his horse almost on its haunches. 
 It stumbled and nearly fell; and then stood trem- 
 bling under him. Cristobal looked about him. 
 Broad fields of grain swept away on either hand, 
 under the starlight. Before him were the dark 
 hushed houses of a village. The man who had 
 halted him was a great burly creature, with a 
 rifle. 
 
 "Who are you?" he demanded. "I thought 
 you were one of them soldiers. What do you 
 want here?'* 
 
 "I am Cristobal." 
 
 "What do you want here? Are you a Saint?" 
 
 Cristobal shook his head and made the sign of 
 the cross 
 
328 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Another tremendous creature appeared, asking 
 the first one who* this was. 
 
 "Spy, I believe," said the first, "from them 
 soldiers. Better arrest him, Naphtali." 
 
 "Spies don't come riding right into you 
 lickety-split," said Wivvers in his rough voice; 
 "and anyway I told you I don't believe them 
 soldiers has come to interfere with us. I guess 
 they're after the Penitentes all right." 
 
 Cristobal's sense was returning. "Yes," he 
 put in eagerly. "They go for the Penitentes. I 
 was there. I know." 
 
 "You was there?" repeated the first Mormon 
 suspiciously. 
 
 "So was we there, Gideon," said Wivvers. 
 
 "They got my sweetheart," explained Cris- 
 tobal. "I hate them." 
 
 "Who is your sweetheart?" demanded Wiv- 
 vers, blackly. 
 
 "Dolores. They stole her. I will kill them." 
 
 "I'd like to help you," said Wivvers grimly. 
 
 Cristobal leaned forward eagerly from his 
 horse. "Yes; we will all go and kill them." He 
 held out his hand to Wivvers. 
 
 "That ain't a bad idea," mused Wivvers. "We 
 can meet them up there at San Rafael and inter- 
 fere with them a little. They wanted us to help 
 'em so bad. I say we better had. You come 
 along," he said to Cristobal, "and we'll all talk 
 this over." 
 
HE PLOTS WITH WIVVERS 329 
 
 So Cristobal, dismounting 1 and leading his 
 horse, went with Wivvers to his house. And 
 there in the bleak parlor their plans were laid in 
 the gray of morning. 
 
 About noon the next day Cristobal awoke, 
 and when he remembered where he was his blood 
 boiled anew at the thought of revenge. He pro- 
 posed to Wivvers that he should go over to Las 
 Animas county to get his own rifle. So strong 
 was his refusal to use any one else's that some of 
 the Mormons again suspected him as a spy. But 
 Wivvers, who somehow felt assured by Cristo- 
 bal's strenuous intensity, gruffly bade him go, 
 and told him where to meet them the next morn- 
 ing. Nevertheless, they watched him ride off, in 
 the direction indeed of Las Animas, and as long 
 as any one strained his eyes over the glaring yel- 
 low distance the way of the horseman was seen 
 to hold the same. 
 
 As for Cristobal, he trotted along now in the 
 blaze of day with different visions from those of 
 the night before. The favorite one was of blue- 
 coated soldiers lying in their blood, and the little 
 Padre Maria de Jesus also weltering alongside. 
 And somehow Dolores, with her pretty face, was 
 always running towards him with outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 In his accustomed haunts he met with one of 
 his new comrades, and the two, as evening fell, 
 
33 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 sat over their whisky in a dingy bar. Cristobal 
 waxed verbose as to his contemplated deeds of 
 slaughter. As the fumes of their glasses, spread 
 thicker, his dark Spanish eyes and his unbridled 
 voice grew more fiery. The evening passed into 
 midnight, filled with the sound of his hatred and 
 his boasting. 
 
 At the dawn the two lay still in a drunken 
 torpor; and the day of vengeance came and went 
 before their brains returned. 
 
XXXVII 
 
 FEEDING THE HUNGRY 
 
 ONE evening, after a monotonous, smoky- 
 meeting, when about twenty Penitentes 
 sat huddled up on the floor praying and 
 droning responses in the house of Oestocris; 
 when finally the spirit had moved some one to 
 rise tacitly, and after bowing to the images to go 
 out, and the others had followed dreamily, the 
 old mother put her skinny hand on the arm of 
 Fanita. The girl, falling into an inevitably grace- 
 ful attitude, waited till everyone else had filed 
 out. 
 
 "I wanted to speak to you, Neetasta," began 
 the old crone, mysteriously dropping her harsh 
 voice. 
 
 After a sharp look into the girl's face, she 
 lowered her eagle eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl. 
 
 Oestocris pointed one thin arm. "Him. Out 
 there. Paez," she said. 
 
 The girl looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 "You love him, Neetasta; don't you?" be- 
 sought the mother. 
 
 With eyes large and wondering, Fanita vague- 
 ly nodded. 
 
 "You were his sweetheart. He always loved 
 
 331 
 
33 2 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 you. He never would have given you up, ex- 
 cept for the love of God." 
 
 The corners of Fanita's mouth twitched just a 
 little. 
 
 "You, you want him to succeed," pleaded 
 the mother. 
 
 "Oh, Oestocris!" The girl's voice was full of 
 feeling, and she clasped her hands, 
 
 "Ah," smiled the old woman sadly, shaking 
 her head. "That will be a proud day for us, the 
 two he cared for most. You will be Saint Ve- 
 ronica and I the Blessed Virgin." The light went 
 out of her eyes and she spoke worriedly again: 
 "But they don't feed him enough out there." 
 
 "Why, the Father " began Fanita. 
 
 "He is starving. I can see it. I am his mother. 
 I understand those eyes of his. Oh, he will die 
 before the day, if we don't do something," she 
 pleaded in despair. 
 
 The girl looked at her silently. 
 
 "It is nearly dark," said Oestocris, peering out 
 into the dusk. 
 
 She turned to her wooden chest, and lighted 
 the ill-smelling lamp atop of it. 
 
 "Come here," she whispered hoarsely. 
 
 Fanita slowly approached. 
 
 "Wait!" Oestocris turned and hobbled ner- 
 vously from the room. In a moment she came 
 shuffling in again, bending over a smoking 
 crockery bowl. 
 
FEEDING THE HUNGRY 333 
 
 "Here!" She shoved it towards the girl. "You 
 take this to him." 
 
 .Fanita drew back. "But the Father forbade 
 anybody to feed him." 
 
 "Ha?" queried the old creature. "What! 
 Would you rather have him die before San 
 Rafael's Day?" she demanded. 
 
 "Why don't you take it to him yourself, then?" 
 
 "Me? I'm scared," confided Oestocris with a 
 sly smile. "I'm his mother, and they'd say 
 You know. But you're his sweetheart and 
 they'd forgive you. Anyway, nobody'll catch 
 you." 
 
 She chuckled and smelled the steam from the 
 bowl. 
 
 "Besides, it's meat," objected the girl, sniffing. 
 
 "No, no," cried Oestocris. "Not a bit. It's 
 Lenten food. Soup and potatoes. Just what I 
 eat. I'm fasting, you know. Here, take it to 
 him." She put the bowl into Fanita's hands. 
 
 "I don't like to," said Fanita, taking it. 
 
 "Neetasta," said the old mother reproachfully, 
 "would you have him loose the glory of it? After 
 we've prayed for it so much and the Blessed 
 Virgin sent it to us. Don't you want to be Saint 
 Veronica, and wipe his face? Oh, don't you want 
 him to die on the cross and go right straight to 
 heaven?" There was a tremor in the old cracked 
 voice. 
 
 Fanita looked more sympathetically at her. 
 
334 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "I'll take it," she said. "But I hope he won't 
 eat it." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Oestocris eagerly, pushing 
 her towards the door. "It will do him good. 
 Take it to him." 
 
 Holding the bowl carefully and peering about 
 her, Fanita walked gingerly into the darkness. 
 She had not to search long. The fields across 
 the road, where she went first, disclosed him. 
 But she did not see him till she heard his rough 
 breathing. He was leaning in a corner of the 
 fence which partly supported his burden. 
 
 "Paez!" she said. "Is this you?" 
 
 The answer was an aimless grunt. 
 
 "Are you hungry?" she asked. 
 
 He said nothing, but she made out that he was 
 nodding in the darkness. 
 
 "Here is something to eat, your mother sent 
 you." 
 
 She saw the two hands stretched eagerly to- 
 ward her. But she drew back with the bowl. 
 As she did so, Paez raised one of his extended 
 arms to point into the distance beyond her. She 
 half turned to look. The moon, just appearing 
 over the sturdy shoulder of Mount Blanca, 
 brought out against the softly lighted sky his 
 bold outline in silhouette. Already, even where 
 they stood, the night was a shade less dark. 
 
 Paez got one of his hot hands on Fanita's bare 
 forearm and tried to pull it and the bowl to him. 
 
FEEDING THE HUNGRY 335 
 
 But again she resisted, saying cheerily, "I am 
 sure that is a sign from the Blessed Virgin to 
 encourage you, the moon coming just now. You 
 don't want to eat, Paez, and break your fast. 
 Doesn't Father Chucho feed you with the 
 Host?" 
 
 "I am hungry/' he cried in his hoarse, rough- 
 ened voice. 
 
 "Then take it," said she, letting go the bowl; 
 "and I pray that it will give you strength and 
 courage to hold out. And the Blessed Virgin 
 forgive me. I wouldn't have done it, if I hadn't 
 loved you." 
 
 Paez was taking no< heed of what she said. All 
 doubled over as he was, holding the bowl in the 
 crook of one arm, he was fishing out the food 
 with his other hand, and eating greedily. While 
 she watched him. by the rising light of the moon, 
 Fanita prayed. When he had gobbled all, and 
 had even contrived to get his head clear of the 
 cross and to drink the last drop of soup, the girl, 
 holding out her hand, said: "Give me the bowl; 
 and I trust now that God will send you strength 
 to make a good and glorious Christ." 
 
 "I am thirsty," growled Paez, and he dragged 
 past her in the direction of the river. 
 
 Fanita turned to look after him, sighing; then 
 she shook her head doubtfully, and returned to 
 his mother's house. 
 
XXXVIII 
 
 FAY GOES TOO FAR 
 
 A SIX the next morning, which was Sun- 
 day, the day after the Mormons' visit, 
 Fay got up, dressed, and went- down into 
 the kitchen. There she found Senorita Tecla 
 before her. 
 
 "The Father's too weak to say his mass this 
 morning," Tecla began as soon as her hand-maid 
 came in. "I don't think he can get out of bed. 
 I'm going to ask Father Dumain to say his mass. 
 It's a good thing he's a priest." 
 
 "Do I have to go?" asked Fay. 
 
 "Why, of course, you do. Don't you always 
 go? Every Sunday?" 
 
 "I ain't no Catholic," said Fay sullenly, giv- 
 ing the fire she was making a vicious poke. 
 
 "The sooner you become one the better it 
 will be for your soul, Fay Grady. I can tell you 
 that." 
 
 Without another answer Fay listened all the 
 while breakfast was preparing to the acrid re- 
 ligious lecture she had called down upon her- 
 self. 
 
 Mass was at nine o'clock. Except Dumain and 
 a small boy to serve him, the only people in the 
 church were the hired man, Dolores, Pasco, 
 
 336 
 
FAY GOES TOO FAR 337 
 
 Tecla, and Fay Grady. Fay took pains to sit 
 at the other end of their front pew from- the 
 Senorita. 
 
 They had to themselves a big and not an ugly 
 church. The various shades it was painted in 
 had faded until the gold was dingy and they all 
 blended. The altars, with their lace and their 
 gilt ornaments and their imitation flowers, even 
 though a trifle tawdry, were pretty. The morn- 
 ing sun pouring through one of the painted win- 
 dows, fell on Fay's hair and made it a lovely un- 
 natural shade of pale purple. 
 
 Dumain repeated mass soothingly in his 
 strong, pleasant voice. Its hushed cadences were 
 better than much music. His little congregation, 
 even to Fay, followed the service reverently, 
 looking on their prayer-books, kneeling and 
 standing at the proper times, and again kneeling. 
 The Senorita had her rosary wound round her 
 hand. Above the confidential murmur of the 
 priest's voice, Fay once or twice heard the faint 
 crow of some far-away cock. A warm breeze 
 came in through an open window. 
 
 At last came the Elevation. The boy in his 
 mussed white cassock, kneeling on the lowest 
 altar step, sounded his bell. Four heads were 
 bent with reverently closed eyes. But Fay, with 
 head erect, rose, slipped out of the pew, and hur- 
 ried to the front door, as fast as she could away 
 from the church. Tecla, whose sharp ears heard 
 
33$ THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 her go, had as much as she could do* to restrain 
 herself from looking up during the Elevation. 
 
 Fay, once outside, actually ran through the 
 garden, into the house door; and then, slowing 
 a little, through the study into the sacristy. For- 
 tunately the door into the chancel was closed. 
 Dumain's coat hung on a hook. It took her but 
 an instant to get the letter; and in not more than 
 three minutes after that she reached the hotel. 
 She burst into the dining-room, where Houghtel- 
 ing and the Sergeant sat, gasping, "Hurry! 
 Here, read it, and let me take it back, or they will 
 find out. There's only five minutes." 
 
 Houghteling snatched the letter. 
 
 "Why, it's torn," he exclaimed. 
 
 "Father Dumain tore it, himself," said Fay. 
 
 "It's in Spanish," he said. "Call Mr. Stange! 
 Why wasn't I a West Pointer?" 
 
 Alfie, who was having a bath, appeared in a 
 few seconds with nothing on but his trousers and 
 holding a towel. 
 
 "Beg your pardon;" he nodded at Fay. 
 
 Fay, not understanding, merely stared. 
 
 "My Spanish is pretty rusty," he said, putting 
 the two pieces together and studying the paper. 
 
 Fay was gazing at his broad fine body with its 
 smooth skin. 
 
 "But it seems to mean about this: 'Brother in 
 God or of God, and some other people. The 
 Lord be with you. You must defer your fes- 
 
FAY GOES TOO FAR 339 
 
 tivity.' I should say they must. 'Cannot be with 
 you personally, but my blessing- will be with 
 towards you. Yours and something, P. Eman- 
 uele.' That's the best I can do without a trot. 
 Now, why did Dumain tear it up?" 
 
 "Here's another that I seen Father Dumain 
 write himself," drawled Fay. 
 
 "The scoundrel," exclaimed Stange. "Let's 
 see it. This one's in Spanish, too, and is signed 
 Dumain: The soldiers will, not march before 
 six; so you can safely begin about dawn. Father 
 Emanuele is too sick to write. I send our bless- 
 ing.' " 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Houghteling, amazed. 
 
 "And now, Fay my fairy, you run back with 
 it quick. You're a dead game peach and I for- 
 give you." 
 
 Fay was out of the room with the letter; her 
 green gown flashed past the windows. 
 
 "That girl's hot ice in large cakes," said Alfie 
 approvingly. "I never saw her waked up before." 
 
 "I suppose it was best to let her take it back," 
 Houghteling mused. 
 
 "Of course. We don't want to get the girl into 
 trouble." 
 
 "So he does want them to pull it through," 
 said Houghteling, grimly. 
 
 "Aha! Jesuit uncloaked!" cried Stange. 
 
 "Would you march at once?" 
 
 "I'd march at midnight," said Alfie, starting 
 
340 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 back to his bath. "It's cool then, and plenty 
 of time. In the meanwhile I'd surround that par- 
 sonage and not let another soul out." 
 
 Fay, while this conversation was going" on, 
 had returned almost as quickly as she had gone. 
 Putting the letter back into the pocket of the 
 coat in the sacristy, she went into the garden 
 and sat down in the shade on the front steps. 
 The church bell left off ringing; so she knew 
 that mass was nearly over. As she sat there 
 panting from her run, she heard voices inside 
 the house. She moved to one side so as not to 
 be seen from within and continued sitting 
 quietly 
 
 After she had been there for what seemed a 
 good while, with the smell of the trees in her 
 nostrils, a horse came round from the side of the 
 house, and passing the garden, trotted down the 
 road in the sunlight. She recognized Pasco on 
 it; but he didn't see her. 
 
 Pasco had been given the letter and had been 
 sped away from the back door by his hostess and 
 Dumain. After he was out of sight round the 
 corner of the house, Tecla began: "I can't think 
 where that girl can be. It's shameful, such a 
 thing occurring in one's own house. I don't 
 know how to apologize' " 
 
 "Don't try to," said Dumain gallantly. "I 
 know it was not at all your fault. But you are 
 
FAY GOES TOO FAR 341 
 
 going to punish the girl in some way for her 
 own " 
 
 "Indeed I shall. What can I do to her?" 
 
 "I should advise locking her in her room. 
 With soldiers in the Valley, " 
 
 "I'll go look for her again. Shameless crea- 
 ture !" 
 
 She hurried from the kitchen, and as she went 
 first to look in the garden, she soon found the 
 culprit sitting complacently on the front steps. 
 
 "What did you mean by leaving the church, 
 Fay Grady, in the middle of mass?" 
 
 "I was tired of the mass," said Fay calmly. 
 
 "Don't answer me!" cried Tecla, furious. 
 "You are a heathen, and I'm ashamed to have 
 you in my house, good-for-nothing, deceitful 
 girl! I know what I'll do with you. Go to 
 your room at once; do you hear me?" 
 
 Fay quietly got up to go. 
 
 "I told you not to go out again without my 
 permission. You're a disgrace to me. You must 
 have meant some mischief I'm sure those sol- 
 diers There's one of them now!" cried the in- 
 dignant Senorita, catching sight of Stange saun- 
 tering along the road smoking. "Get up stairs! 
 Ugh, I wish I was rid of you." 
 
 Fay slowly went up to her room. Tecla, ner- 
 vously following, ran into her own room, got 
 her great bunch of keys, and locked the girl's 
 door on the outside. Then she flounced away 
 
342 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 again and with the utmost difficulty began mov- 
 ing a heavy chest of drawers down the hall with 
 which to bar the prison door, panting with 
 fatigue and anger over her task. 
 
XXXIX 
 
 AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 
 
 A SOON as Stange reported the messen- 
 ger's departure, the blockade of the 
 priest's house was begun. 
 
 Tecla, who was cooking dinner, was so 
 alarmed at the posting of a guard outside her 
 kitchen window that, when he had conciliatorily 
 but firmly refused to obey her nervous command 
 to go away, she ran tremblingly upstairs and 
 hysterically besought Dumain's help. He, calm- 
 ing and reassuring her, bade her not to< alarm 
 her brother needlessly about it. "It would only 
 make him worse," said he; "and I'm sure there's 
 no danger. The best thing for you to do," he 
 continued kindly, "is to stop crying, like a brave 
 Christian woman, and go get his dinner. You 
 must control yourself and trust in the Lord and 
 the Blessed Virgin." 
 
 Tecla wiped her eyes with her apron. 
 
 "Will you?" He took her cold hand in a 
 priestly clasp. 
 
 "I will try," she said brokenly. 
 
 "No, promise me," he insisted. 
 
 "I promise," she said with a gulp. "But, oh! 
 I am so tried to-day." 
 
 "Say your beads and you will forget it. Now 
 go, and don't think about all this," 
 
 343 
 
344 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Tecla halted on the threshold and said tragi- 
 cally. "Oh, those poor Penitentes! What will 
 they do with them, if they treat us like this?" 
 
 "That's what puzzles me," said Dumain. 
 
 "Write and tell them to stop," she pleaded. 
 
 "Why, so your brother has. You saw the 
 letter: 'By no means continue your ceremony/ ' 
 
 "Yes," she said sniffling; "so I did. I am so 
 upset." 
 
 Still hysterically sobbing and choking, she 
 descended to the kitchen. 
 
 Dumain went down to the front door and 
 asked the soldier there where he could find one 
 of the officers. 
 
 "The Captain and the Lieutenant's at the 
 hotel. But you can't go out. The Sergeant's 
 at a little door round behind the church. Will 
 I call him?" 
 
 Dumain, saying he would go to him, went in 
 and found a passageway with a little door at the 
 end, which he opened; and there was the Ser- 
 geant, who saluted. 
 
 "You will assure me, I suppose," said Dumain, 
 "that no harm is intended us so long as we stay 
 quietly indoors." 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 "What time do you think the Captain pro- 
 poses " 
 
 "Special orders to answer none of your ques- 
 tions, sir," interrupted the Sergeant stiffly. "The 
 
AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 345 
 
 Captain will be here after a while if you want 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, I see," nodded Dumain. 
 
 He went in, and repeated the Sergeant's as- 
 surance to Tecla. 
 
 Fay Grady had taken her imprisonment phil- 
 osophically. At first, she had indeed pounded 
 a few times on the door with her fist, but when 
 she heard the heavy furniture being moved, she 
 had resigned herself to her fate and gone com- 
 placently to the window. Her room was over 
 the little door, where Dumain interviewed the 
 Sergeant. The back of the church and one large 
 tree cut off the view, and both were too far away 
 for climbing down. 
 
 After looking out for a short while, she had 
 lain down on her bed; and despite its being broad 
 daylight, was soon asleep. She slept soundly all 
 afternoon. 
 
 Houghteling and Stange spent most of that 
 Sunday afternoon in the hotel bar. On the map 
 they studied the lay of the land, which is all 
 pretty flat in the San Luis Valley, though to- 
 wards San Rafael there is more of a roll. Wezel, 
 who' had lived for many years at Antonito, was 
 able to help them a good deal. They planned 
 their march as carefully as possible. Now that 
 they had intercepted Dumain's message, they 
 were to start at midnight; and they calculated 
 that it would take at least three hours, 
 
THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 At four o'clock they heard the down train 
 pass without stopping. 
 
 At five, when the relief was posted at the par- 
 sonage, Houghteling went over with them. 
 Dumain appeared at the church door and spoke 
 to him. 
 
 "How are you?" said the Captain gravely. 
 
 "I suppose you do not wish me to come out." 
 
 "That was my idea," said Houghteling, still 
 gravely. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Dumain, "that you refuse to 
 have more confidence in me: but that shall not 
 prevent my giving you another piece of infor- 
 mation, which may be useful. I find the Peni- 
 tentes are not, after all, going to abandon their 
 ceremony, but merely to begin earlier. The 
 ceremony will probably be at four to-morrow 
 morning; so I should advise your setting out 
 for there about midnight. I trust you will be 
 successful." 
 
 "I thank you," said Houghteling, formally, 
 but he could not conceal the surprise in his eyes. 
 
 Dumain disappeared into the church. 
 
 When Houghteling reached the hotel again, 
 he said to Stange: "I can't understand that man. 
 What do you think he told me? That we'd better 
 march at midnight." 
 
 Alfie laughed heartily. 
 
 i "What a boy he is !" said he. "He probably 
 had discovered that we intercepted his letter. 
 
AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 347 
 
 That's what it is to be a diplomat. You'll never 
 be one, Dan. I might." 
 
 "No, I don't believe he knew," considered 
 Houghteling. "He didn't act like it. But I'm 
 more at a loss than ever to know his game. I 
 shouldn't be surprised at anything unexpected. 
 We'll keep him in there till it's all over." 
 
 "You bet we will," agreed Stange. 
 
 Houghteling turned and went into the hotel. 
 
 A minute or two later, while Stange was still 
 standing there whistling to himself, a man came 
 hurriedly riding, and drew up. He recognized 
 one of the Mormons who had been with Wiv- 
 vers. Instinctively his hand went to his holster. 
 But the Mormon, without a word, handed him 
 a letter and rode off as fast as he had come. 
 
 As the letter had no address, Alfie tore it open. 
 
 "Dan!" he was shouting the next minute at 
 the foot of the stairs, "come down! Here's more 
 news. Those Mormons are coming," he cried as 
 Houghteling reappeared. 
 
 The Captain read the letter, which was written 
 in a large, scrawly, careful hand, as follows: 
 
 "We are going to join you against the San 
 Rafaelers after all. We don't want no quarrel 
 with you and they ought to be put down. Agree 
 with thine adversary quickly, says the holy scrip- 
 tures. We will meet you to-morrow morning 
 early. Yours, etc. 
 
 "Naphtali Wiwers, Elder." 
 
34^ THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Where's the man that brought it?" asked 
 Houghteling. 
 
 "He rode away like hell." 
 
 "Why did you let him? We'll have to write 
 now and tell them to stay away." 
 
 "What for?" said Stange. "They won't do 
 any harm." 
 
 "Harm! Didn't they go off swearing ven- 
 geance? Trust an insulted savage." 
 
 "I'd just as soon trust them," says Alfie, non- 
 chalantly. 
 
 "You know what I put up with to get clear 
 of them. It's about a woman, too." 
 
 "Anyway, they'll never think of going so 
 early," argued Alfie. 
 
 "For all we know Dumain may have told 
 them." 
 
 "Gad! Do you think he's in this, too?" 
 
 "He called them in first," said Houghteling. 
 
 "He's a corker!" laughed Alfie. 
 
 "Get a horse saddled, while I write a note, will 
 you?" 
 
 Houghteling went into the bar and wrote this 
 laconic note: 
 
 "You needn't come. I told you to remain 
 quiet. Houghteling, 
 
 "Captain Commanding." 
 
 He addressed it to Naphtali Wivvers. 
 The soldier who took it was bidden to follow 
 the Mormon at full speed; and if he didn't catch 
 
AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 349 
 
 him at a house two miles down the road, to in- 
 quire the way and ride straight to Manassa. He 
 spurred his horse, which sprang forward; and 
 soon they were only a cloud of sand glimmering 
 far down the road. 
 
 When late in the evening, he returned tired 
 and dusty, with a wet horse, he reported that 
 only a few miles from Manassa he had overtaken 
 the Mormon, who took the note without a word. 
 
 Darkness fell quickly. The moon seemed 
 brighter and bigger than usual, rather puffy, 
 and there were few stars. Occasionally a dog 
 was heard barking and once a horse neighed; 
 but Stange noticed that there were no crickets. 
 At nine he went over with the relief guard. 
 While he was standing at the little back door in 
 the corner of the church and the house, talking 
 with the Sergeant, he heard a voice above him 
 cautiously calling his name. 
 
 The tree threw a shadow where they stood. 
 
 "Is that you?" said the voice. 
 
 Alfie paused and looked up. There in the 
 moonlight was Fay Grady's head out of a window. 
 
 "Fay! Yes, it's I. What do you want?" 
 
 "I want to get down," said Fay lapsing into 
 her natural slow speech. 
 
 "Well, come on down, and I'll let you out this 
 door. Hurry up." 
 
 "I can't," explained Fay. "I'm locked in," 
 
 "Who locked you in?" 
 
350 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "She did," Fay drawled, " 'cause I left the 
 church in mass." 
 
 "Why, what a bloody autocrat! I'll get you 
 down. If I only had a ladder." 
 
 "There's one in the church that they mend 
 the bells with. Inside the door, on the left." 
 
 Stange bade one of the men fetch it. 
 
 "How did you happen to be down there?" 
 inquired Fay from above. 
 
 "Why, we're besieging the house; didn't you 
 know? No one is allowed to come out." 
 
 "I thought it was something like that," gig- 
 gled the girl, " 'cause I heard the soldiers. I've 
 been asleep most of the time. How mad she 
 must be! Serves her right, cross old thing." 
 
 The man returned carrying the ladder. They 
 hoisted it up and Fay began to clamber out the 
 window. 
 
 "Wait," called Stange, who could see her in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 He started up. 
 
 "I can get down all right," she said. 
 
 "Wait for me," he insisted. "Now you can 
 come," he said, when he had got to the top, and 
 looked past her into the moon-lighted room. 
 "Have you got your nightgown?" 
 
 "No," said Fay, going back for it. 
 
 "You'd better." 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, as she cautiously turned on 
 the window-sill; "I'll never go back in that house 
 
AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 351 
 
 no more. They starve you, too," she went on, 
 as he helped her down round by round, with his 
 arm about her. "I ain't had nothin' to eat all 
 day. I got some water out of the pitcher." 
 
 "What brutes!" said Alfie feelingly. "But 
 we'll fool 'em. She'll be surprised." 
 
 Fay laughed. It was a nervous, unpracticed 
 laugh. 
 
 "Wait for me in the garden," he bade Fay. 
 
 When the relief was posted, and the soldiers 
 coming off had gone to the hotel, he found her 
 waiting inside the gate. They walked slowly 
 back. He carried her bundle and put one arm 
 round the plump waist. Her head came just 
 above his shoulder. Only once, where the porch 
 of the post office made a shadow in the moon- 
 light, did he pause and bend down to kiss her. 
 He proposed to stop and sit there on the steps, 
 but Fay couldn't see the use; and, besides, she 
 was hungry. So they strolled on. 
 
 He brought her into the room, where were 
 Houghteling and Wezel and the six men just 
 relieved. The soldiers all stood to one side, and 
 stared at the buxom young figure in bright 
 green. 
 
 "Good evening!" Houghteling greeted her. 
 "I hear you've been rescued." 
 
 "What she wants is food," cried Alfie. "Get 
 her some bread and ham, old Wezel, and some 
 beer." 
 
352 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 Fay ate, oblivious of all else. 
 
 "I thought I told you," said Houghteling in 
 a low tone, standing in front of Stange, who sat 
 at the table, "that no one was to> leave that house 
 without my written order." 
 
 "Oh, I forgot that," said Alfie. "But it's all 
 right. Fay here " 
 
 "But the men knew it," said Houghteling, still 
 black. 
 
 "I forgot to tell them, old man," laughed Alfie, 
 putting his hands on Houghteling's shoulders. 
 
 The Captain looked relieved. 
 
 "That's better for discipline. But you'll never 
 make a soldier, Alfred." 
 
 "While Danny here, who rose from the ranks, 
 will go up, so high till he's a Major-General. 
 Well, I hope so." 
 
 "You'd better go to bed now and get a couple 
 of hour's sleep before we march. I am." 
 
 "I'm not." 
 
 "You're not? Why?" 
 
 "I want to talk to her." He jerked his head 
 towards Fay behind him. 
 
 "You mean to say you'd lose your wink of 
 sleep before a hot march, for that?" 
 
 "Yes, for that," retorted Alfie, defiant. "I've 
 never had a good chance to talk to her yet." 
 
 Houghteling turned away with a shrug. 
 
 "You men, turn in," he commanded, and left 
 the room. 
 
AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 353 
 
 Alfie, swinging his legs and smiling, waited till 
 they all had gone out, and Wezel after them. 
 
 Fay had taken no notice of anything but her 
 supper. He turned towards her. "It's good to 
 be free to go where you want, isn't it?" 
 
 She looked up at him with her gray eyes. 
 
 "I reckon I'll go> over to Manassa," she said. 
 
 "Not tonight." 
 
 "Yes. I guess so." 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn't," said Alfie. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I want to talk to you. I want you to tell 
 
 me You can sleep here. We're going away 
 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Are you?" said Fay, disinterestedly. 
 
 "Yes, we are. Aren't you sorry?" 
 
 She looked at him awhile with rather a puz- 
 zled expression. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said finally. 
 
 He laughed dryly. 
 
 "Have you ever been out of the Valley, Fay?" 
 He reclined on the table, leaning his head on his 
 hand so that it was on a level with hers. 
 
 Fay leaned back in her chair. 
 
 "I was seven when I came here," she drawled, 
 blinking her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, of course. From Georgia. Don't you 
 ever feel as if you'd like to go out again? Up 
 to Denver, or anywhere?" 
 
354 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "Sometimes/ 5 said Fay, slowly. "I don't 
 know." 
 
 "Do you think you'll marry Wivvers?" he 
 asked softly. 
 
 "Yes, I reckon I will now." 
 
 She twisted from her placid position and 
 stretched her shoulders. 
 
 "You think " 
 
 Fay now fairly yawned, and he paused. 
 
 "Ah," she said yawning; "I guess I'll go to 
 bed." 
 
 "Oh, no," coaxed Alfie, "stay and talk with 
 me." 
 
 "I'm so sleepy," said Fay, rubbing her hands 
 over her face, and yawning again. 
 
 Alfie laughed once more, pulled himself to- 
 gether, got off the table, and yelled for Wezel. 
 
 "I'll get him to fix up my room for you," he 
 said. "And you be sure to wait till we get back 
 tomorrow." 
 
 As for Dolores, Tecla had gone to her room 
 Sunday morning and had taken her down for 
 breakfast and mass. She had not noticed that 
 the door of the room was already unlocked when 
 she turned the key in it. The girl was obstin- 
 ately silent. Pasco gazed at her in amazement; 
 but she only returned one withering stare, and 
 then would not see him. After mass Tecla was 
 too much excited over Fay Grady to think of 
 
AN INEFFECTIVE SIEGE 355 
 
 her other charge; but when she did remember 
 her, she found the girl quiet in her room. By 
 this time the house was surrounded by soldiers, 
 and Dolores was so docile that Tecla did not 
 think it needful to lock her in again. She found 
 that the girl went to her own room after each 
 meal and stayed there; and when Tecla went 
 to bed, Dolores was apparently sleeping. 
 
XL 
 THE VIGIL 
 
 THE vigil of San Rafael's Day was a 
 strangely silent night in the Penitentes vil- 
 lage, very strangely silent, for there was 
 not a moan, not a sigh to be heard from the dim 
 houses: nothing but the slight stinging sounds 
 of whips on bare flesh, sounds almost like 
 kisses. All the men were indoors, in their own 
 houses performing this last preparatory rite of 
 flagellation, a. final mortification of the flesh to 
 purify them for the supreme sacrifice of the mor- 
 row. Hour after hour it continued; the hissing 
 sounds sometimes ceasing for a while in one 
 house or another, but never in all of them. The 
 dusk gathered into darkness and the moon set 
 behind the eastern mountains. In the open 
 space of the village not a soul was to be seen, 
 till all at once Fanita came hurrying aimlessly 
 along, hurrying and then pausing. She held 
 both hands over her eyes, and then again over 
 her ears. 
 
 Wandering at first from her own house, 
 straight out into the open, at last she changed 
 her course, and finally went running in at the 
 open door of the house of Oestocris. The old 
 woman, sitting alone in the wan lamp-light, rock- 
 
 356 
 
THE VIGIL 357 
 
 ing to and fro as she mumbled prayer upon 
 prayer, raised her head and was silent as the girl 
 came hurrying in. 
 
 "Oestocris!" cried Fanita, with a little groan. 
 "Isn't it horrible?" 
 
 Dropping to her knees, she again laid her two 
 hands over her ears. 
 
 Oestocris glared at her with her sharp eyes, 
 but she spoke kindly. 
 
 "What is it, daughter?" 
 
 "I can hear it yet," moaned the girl. "The 
 whip on my father's back, biting, biting. His 
 back is all red, with long welts down it. And 
 the drops of blood drop on the floor. And it 
 never stops." She shuddered. 
 
 "You should have been praying, Neetasta, and 
 not thinking of such things. In every house our 
 men are flagellating themselves; your father is 
 not the only one. It is the will of God. He does 
 not feel it, for his mind is too full of his holy 
 purpose." 
 
 "It is awful, awful!" sighed the girl. "I can't 
 bear to see it." 
 
 "I am surprised you are so weak," said Oesto- 
 cris, severely. "I should be willing to do it my- 
 self. Remember the stripes and the blood are 
 for the glory of God. He suffered so, Himself." 
 
 Fanita sadly shook her head. 
 
 "Think of the glorious morning. Think of 
 Paez. Be strong. Be strong as he is." 
 
358 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "He doesn't have to lash himself," said Fanita. 
 
 "He is to be crucified." 
 
 "I know, I know; but that is different. That 
 is glorious." 
 
 "That is hard, too," said the old woman; "un- 
 less you are filled with the love of God." 
 
 "Anyway, Paez is not so strong," objected the 
 girl in self-defence. "He is frightened as well 
 as I am." 
 
 "Neetasta!" the harsh old voice rang 1 with 
 reproach. 
 
 Fanita made no answer. 
 
 After a few moments Oestocris, stiffly clam- 
 bering to her feet, held out her hand to the girl. 
 
 "Come," she said. "We will go and see how 
 he is. We will say good-bye to him. To-morrow 
 it would not be proper." 
 
 Fanita hung back. "The Father will see us." 
 
 "No one will see us," said Oestocris, seizing 
 the girl^s hand and dragging her along. "They 
 are all indoors. Listen!" 
 
 As they stole along, clinging together, the 
 night was alive with the monotonous hiss of the 
 scourges. They hurried silently from the village, 
 and up to the swell of the hills. There, as they 
 moved slowly, peering about for some sign of 
 their cross-bearer in the gloom, suddenly there 
 was a dull cry at their very feet. They both 
 shrank back. 
 
 "Paez!" exclaimed his mother. 
 
THE VIGIL 359 
 
 "You have stepped on him," breathed Fanita, 
 horror-stricken. 
 
 Kneeling among the low-growing bushes, 
 where he lay fallen, they felt for him blindly. 
 
 "Paez!" implored Oestocris. "Where are you? 
 Did I hurt you?" 
 
 After awhile the answer came in the hoarse 
 lifeless voice: "I don't know. I can't feel what 
 hurts me now." 
 
 His voice almost died away as he spoke, flick- 
 ering with his breath. 
 
 "Paez, you are not dying?" Oestocris, put- 
 ting out one bony hand, felt for his face, and then 
 smoothed back the matted hair from his fore- 
 head. 
 
 "No, no," he answered. "I am strong. I can 
 carry the cross. I am not even hungry any 
 more." 
 
 He spoke so falteringly that they waited to 
 see if more was coming. 
 
 "Are you frightened?" asked Fanita, in her 
 clear young voice. 
 
 "Who is that?" he asked quickly, moving his 
 head under his mother's hand. "Nita!" There 
 was a tone of disheartenment in his voice. "I 
 thought it was Dolores come back." 
 
 "To-morrow is the day," said Fanita. "Did 
 you know?" 
 
 This time they Hardly thought the answer was 
 coming at all. 
 
360 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "So much the better/' he said calmly. 
 
 "Are you frightened?" asked his mother. 
 
 "No!" He spoke with an unnatural calmness. 
 "The angels come and talk to me, and tell me 
 about heaven. And then I shall have no cross 
 to carry." 
 
 "It is beautiful in heaven!" said Oestocris, 
 rapturously. 
 
 "Yes," he answered in the same dull tone. 
 "Yes. There is nothing to hurt you there. Only 
 if I had gone with Dolores, I should not want 
 to go to heaven so soon. We should have gone 
 off way over there, out of the Valley, and never 
 come back. It is different over there. We would 
 have been married, Dolores and me, and we 
 would have lived there in our house, with a 
 ranch, and horses, and lots of cattle, and fields, 
 and horses, and Dolores, Dolores and me. She 
 wanted me to go, and I wish I had gone. She 
 loved me and I loved her; and they took me 
 and put me on this cross, and it is killing me." 
 
 "Paez!" Fanita's voice hurled out her pent- 
 up feelings. 
 
 He paused, and then resumed again: "Dolores 
 said it was killing me; and I would have gone 
 away with her, and never wanted to go to 
 heaven; and I wish I had now. Because she 
 loved me." 
 
 Suddenly his words ceased in a vague mum- 
 
THE VIGIL 361 
 
 bling. His mother had laid her hand over his 
 mouth. 
 
 'Tray Paez pray!" she said in his ear. 
 'Tray to the Virgin." 
 
 "He is crazy," she said to Fanita. 
 
 Paez lay quite still till she took her hand off 
 his mouth, and then he began to pray aloud: 
 
 "Hail Mary, full of grace " He said the 
 
 words mechanically, over and over and over 
 again, only sometimes he said "Dolores." 
 
 After some minutes, Fanita took him by the 
 shoulder and shook him. "Stop!" she cried; 
 "stop!" 
 
 "Sh! Nita," said the old mother fiercely. "He 
 is praying. Don't say stop." 
 
 Still he continued the prayer. 
 
 "Come," said Oestocris, with a sigh; "we will 
 go back." 
 
 So they left him lying there tied to the cross, 
 praying among the low-growing bushes. 
 
XLI 
 THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 
 
 A> Father Maria de Jesus had told the Jesuit 
 priest Dumain, on the day that the two 
 soldiers came to San Rafael with 
 the order to the Penitentes for them to abandon 
 their ceremony, he hardly thought that at this 
 late day he could prevent it from taking place; 
 and, moreover, he said confidentially, he should 
 not need to, since he could simply have it earlier 
 in the day than they had intended. However, 
 he had consented, on Dumain's suggestion, to 
 wait for a letter of advice from the sick Father 
 Emanuele, who was a great friend of his, and 
 with whom he had gone down into the Valley 
 once or twice to talk over the festival. 
 
 Of all this he did not speak even to Oestocris 
 and Cristoke; and the next day when Pasco, 
 whom he had sent to Antonito with Dumain, 
 brought a letter telling him. to proceed with the 
 ceremony without fear, he no longer had any 
 dread whatever of interruption. 
 
 In Antonito, however, there had not been the 
 least intention on the part of any one to allow the 
 ceremony to proceed. Captain Houghteling had 
 made all his preparations to prevent it; and ac- 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 363 
 
 cordingly, a few minutes after midnight, when 
 San Rafael's Day had just begun, he drew up all 
 his men, except the small guard left at the priest's 
 house, and the march on San Rafael began. The 
 moon had set; the stars twinkled coldly in an 
 almost blue sky; the air was fresh and cool. As 
 they marched, in rout step, no sound was to be 
 heard except the continuous chunking of the 
 men's feet in the sand and the snorting of the 
 two horses. Everybody was silent, except when 
 occasionally one of the soldiers spoke in low 
 tones to his neighbor. 
 
 At the brook below the rise, which cut the 
 hamlet off from them, they made their second 
 halt, and drank and rested. Houghteling sent 
 two men forward to reconnoiter. These having 
 soon returned and reported nobody stirring, 
 were sent on again to give notice when any one 
 should stir. 
 
 The others waited there a long time in silence. 
 
 'They must have overslept," said Stange, in 
 subdued tones, looking at his watch. 
 
 Dolores, who slept with one eye open, was 
 aroused by the shuffling sound of the soldiers' 
 footsteps, as they marched past the church to- 
 ward San Rafael. Jumping up and leaning out 
 her open window, she called anxiously after 
 them. Hearing no reply from the shadows, she 
 called louden This time she was answered by 
 
364 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 a voice from below her in the darkness saying: 
 "Be still. You can't get out." 
 
 She peered down, but there was no one to be 
 seen. 
 
 Hurrying stealthily to her door, through the 
 passage way, and down the stairs, she cautiously 
 opened the front door. Before she could fix the 
 figure standing there, she was accosted shortly: 
 "Halt! Who is there?" 
 
 "I am," said Dolores, shutting the door behind 
 her." 
 
 "Well, go back again. No one can come out." 
 
 Though she could just barely see him, his voice 
 sounded very close. 
 
 "No, no: let me out. I want to go with them, 
 to San Rafael." 
 
 "Orders to let no one out. If you stay, 1*11 
 call the Corporal of the guard." 
 
 "No!" pleaded Dolores; "don't call any one. 
 I can't go back. The door is shut. Let me go." 
 
 The guard began to call: "Post ," but she 
 put her hand over his mouth. 
 
 Thinking she was trying to slip past, he caught 
 hold of her. At this Dolores threw her arms 
 about his neck and drew him down to her. 
 "Don't call," she coaxed; "it's only me, Dolores. 
 No, be good to me." 
 
 He put up his hand to unloose hers. "We 
 will be going soon, and then you can all come 
 out," he said, weakening. 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 365 
 
 "How soon?" 
 
 "In an hour or two." 
 
 "Oh, that won't do. I won't get there in 
 time," she begged. "See, now, let me go," and 
 with that she impetuously kissed him. "I know 
 you will be good to me." 
 
 "Well ," he began, still weakening. Then 
 
 with a change of tone: "Here comes the Cor- 
 poral." 
 
 Sure enough, Dolores heard some one and 
 caught sight of a lantern coming round a corner. 
 Like a flash, she had released him, opened the 
 door and was inside. 
 
 Disconsolately she started up the steps again. 
 She felt the tears run down her face. The idea 
 of Fay Grady flashed into her mind. She had 
 told her a way out before. Wiping her tears on 
 her bare arm, Dolores turned to Fay's room. To 
 her surprise she found a heavy chest before the 
 door. In this she recognized Tecla's work, and 
 realizing that Fay might herself be anxious 
 enough to escape, she set to work to push it 
 away. It .was so heavy that it grated on the 
 floor with what seemed a terrific shriek. But in 
 the pause she made, Dolores heard no move- 
 ment. Reaching the door, she found no key 
 in it. 
 
 Again an expedient flashed upon her. She 
 hastened to her own door, and brought that key. 
 It fitted. Pushing the door open and closing it 
 
366 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 most softly, Dolores called Fay in a low voice. 
 No answer. She felt for the bed. It was empty. 
 She groped her way to the open window, and 
 leaned out. She found herself between two pieces 
 of wood sticking above the sill. Of a sudden 
 these resolved themselves into the end of a lad- 
 der. The way was clear. 
 
 Before descending, Dolores studied the lay of 
 the land. Below her at some distance from the 
 ladder sat the Corporal with his lantern by him. 
 Though he was motionless, she could not be sure 
 that he slept. However, the lantern was far 
 enough from the ladder not to include it in its 
 circle of light. Dolores decided to risk it. 
 
 Holding her breath, she silently clambered 
 out on the ladder, and down. She kept an 
 eye on the Corporal; but he didn't see her. Once 
 on the ground, she crept several paces, and then 
 fairly ran. She took the road towards the south- 
 west. Through the heavy sand, she ran along 
 persistently. It was so dark that she could not 
 see where she was going; but she knew the road 
 well, and by the feeling under foot could keep in 
 it. Away from the town, out into the open 
 Valley, she ran on and on. Now and again halt- 
 ing for breath, she stood with her hand over her 
 heart, gasping. Then freshened by her irresisti- 
 ble desire, she started on again. Once, hearing 
 the murmur of an artesian well, she stopped to 
 drink from it, and would have thrown herself 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 
 
 down from sheer fatigue; but becoming aware 
 of a dark object across the road, she knew that 
 it was her old home, where her sister had died, 
 where Cristobal had murdered Anunciato; and, 
 spurred by the vision of that desolate house, she 
 ran on again with new vigor. Always on and on 
 blindly, the sand made her going hard. Occa- 
 sionally she stumbled in its depth, which clogged 
 her feet. But as yet she had come upon no sign 
 of the soldiers; and remembering this gave her 
 new desperation to press forward. 
 
 At last, panting with exhaustion, she found 
 that she began to distinguish objects as she 
 passed them. It was beginning to grow a shade 
 less dark. In the wanness she made out the form 
 of a tree. Then she slackened her fierce pace a 
 little, for she knew she was drawing nearer to the 
 rise of the hills. This very thought that she had 
 the shorter part of the way yet to go, once more 
 spurred her on. And though her legs were heavy 
 and her shoulders ached with fatigue, she forced 
 herself to keep up a mechanical running. The 
 pale dawn strengthened. She could see the hills 
 vague beyond her. The road began to slope 
 upwards and she could not go so fast. At last 
 she had to stop and merely walk for half a mile. 
 Then the revived fever of her excitement pushed 
 her on again. 
 
 Now she could see the little grove of trees that 
 she knew bordered the river below San Rafael. 
 
368 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 They stood huddled together, strange in the gray 
 light before sunrise. Then she heard the angry 
 beat of hoofs, one-fox/a, one-two. She turned 
 her head to look; on they came behind her. 
 No; it was not the soldiers. Without seeing 
 who it was, she made her last great effort, and 
 as they went up the slope, kept still ahead of 
 them. 
 
 The Penitentes had by no means overslept. 
 On the contrary, eVery one of them had been up 
 long before dawn that morning. There was 
 much to be done. Father Maria de Jesus had 
 to go round personally among his excited peo- 
 ple to see that all the paraphernalia were ready. 
 The crown of thorns, contrived from strips of 
 prickly pear, he found on hand; and Fanita never 
 let go> of the piece of unbleached cotton that 
 figured Saint Veronica's napkin. But it was 
 discovered that though large nails were abun- 
 dant, nobody had thought of a hammer. As for 
 a sponge, there was not such a thing in San 
 Rafael; but finally Panchita was able to find a 
 piece of cotton-batting that would answer. 
 
 All this took some time. So it was almost 
 daybreak when the procession formed to go to 
 the church. Cristoke, who, despite his age, was 
 decided on for Saint John, went first with Oes- 
 tocris; then Panchita as Mary Magdalene and 
 Fanita with her napkin; then came those who 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 369 
 
 presented Nicodemus and the Other Mary, 
 Joseph of Arimathaea, and Simon the Cyrenian. 
 The Apostles followed. More pains had been 
 taken to give everybody a part than to be his- 
 torically accurate. 
 
 All the Penitentes wore their ordinary dirty 
 white and blue clothes; the women their little 
 round caps. The men, who were bareheaded, 
 had long black hair. All the faces wore a very 
 serious expression of piety even more marked 
 than commonly. 
 
 This procession wended its way slowly and 
 gravely to the church. Paez, with the cross, wait- 
 ed, crouching outside; but the others filing in, 
 took their places. The priest, coming last, carefully 
 drew the curtain before the door of the church. 
 The young acolyte in his scarlet and carrying the 
 crown of thorns passed up the aisle, followed 
 by Father Maria de Jesus in a white and gold 
 chasuble, bearing a lighted taper. They pro- 
 ceeded to the altar, where the nails and hammer 
 and the sponge were already set forth. 
 
 The Father placed his taper in a candlestick, 
 and while the acolyte stood near him with the 
 censer, from which curled little thin clouds of 
 perfume, ready to cense each of the implements, 
 he began to bless them in turn and to- consecrate 
 them to their holy use. 
 
 This ceremony finished, Father Maria de Jesus 
 
37 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 lig-hted the three rows of candles on the altar, 
 and began mass. 
 
 It was after this that the soldiers arrived, and 
 not knowing" that the Penitentes were already in 
 the church, waited for them to appear. While 
 they waited, the gray dawn began to glow, with 
 a vague smell of freshness. One yellowish star 
 died very hard; then, suddenly with a flush of 
 pink, came the sun, over Blanca at their backs. 
 As he rose there was a wide view disclosed be- 
 hind them, back over the glaring golden waste 
 of sand with its elusive distances. 
 
 In ten minutes it was hot. 
 
 "We might as well go up and occupy the 
 place," began Houghteling; "they must be 
 awake." 
 
 He was about to give an order when Alfie, 
 who had been sweeping the Valley with a field 
 glass to find the guard, who were to have fol- 
 lowed them, exclaimed: "Wait a minute. There's 
 somebody coming!" 
 
 Houghteling, turning, shaded his eyes with 
 his hat, and letting his reins hang loose, gazed 
 in the direction the other pointed. 
 
 "By George! It's the Mormons," cried 
 Stange. "Yes, sir! There's old Wivvers." 
 
 "We'll go up before they get here," said the 
 other, "and give them a bugle-call and order 
 them to remain peaceably in their houses." 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 371 
 
 "Read the riot act," agreed Alfie; "and then 
 give the Saints what for, when they come, for 
 coming." 
 
 The little detachment moved forward. 
 
 Just then the church bell began to toll. 
 
 "Why, they've begun !" exclaimed Alfie. "It's 
 queer the scouts didn't see them." 
 
 "I see why," said Houghteling. "The church 
 has no windows, and they've got a curtain at 
 the door." 
 
 "They've been at mass all this time. That 
 bell means it's nearly over." 
 
 As they drew near, they saw crouching in 
 front of the little square church a brown thing, 
 part of which seemed to be a wooden cross. 
 
 "What's that?" Houghteling asked, pointing 
 with his sword. 
 
 "That's the man," said Alfie with unconscious 
 blasphemy. "He's the one to be crucified. Nit." 
 
 Houghteling motioned to the bugler. "Blow 
 Assembly," he ordered. 
 
 At the first brazen sounds, the curtain was 
 drawn and the congregation could be seen turn- 
 ing hurriedly round. 
 
 "Remember," cried Houghteling, rising in his 
 stirrups, "don't shoot! If they resist, arrest 
 them." 
 
 As the men in blue crossed the sand at double- 
 quick, the wretched, brown figure of Paez under 
 the cross, rose upright. Starved and worn and 
 
37 2 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 dazed as he was, with a sudden accession of strength 
 he somehow burst the ropes that tied him to the 
 cross, got it off his back and into his arms, 
 and in a supreme effort raised it over his head 
 by the beam, and aimed it at the advancing line 
 of soldiers. During the moment the great beam 
 hung lifted in the air, Alfie caught a sudden 
 sight of the man's wild, tortured, transfigured 
 face, with eyes all whites, and heard him cry, 
 "Jesus!" The next moment he spurred his horse, 
 waving his sword. The last soldier passed an 
 instant before the cross dropped ponderously 
 with the tremendous power of its own weight, 
 and the deathly silent figure in brown fell and 
 lay limp upon it, his arms outstretched. 
 
 A desperate long heart-tearing shriek, and 
 from behind the soldiers a girl came running 
 headlong through the crush of men, and dropped 
 on the motionless body and sobbed and kissed 
 the face. 
 
 Alfie, who had reined in his horse, was pale 
 and sick at all this; but he found voice to mur- 
 mur, "Dolores." 
 
 The next moment a girl in a red waist pushed 
 out from among the Penitentes, and ran towards 
 the group, but one of the soldiers, struck by the 
 murderous look of hatred in her face, caught 
 her, just as Houghteling cried to him: "Seize 
 that woman!" 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 373 
 
 In their first surprise at the sound of the bugle, 
 coming suddenly in the midst of the Elevation 
 and drowning the tinkling of the altar bell, the 
 Penitentes had hurriedly risen from their knees 
 and turned to see, as the curtain was quickly 
 drawn back, the blue soldiers, scores of them 
 there seemed, with guns in their hands, run- 
 ning noiselessly across the sand towards the 
 church. They had stood, dumfounded, dazed 
 with astonishment and horror, drawing back a 
 little upon one another as the soldiers got nearer. 
 But after they had seen Paez fall, and seen Fanita 
 shoot out from among them, with a sudden 
 impulse, they had pushed out furiously behind 
 her, ferociously wild-eyed. 
 
 Alfie seeing them come, put spur to his horse, 
 and made toward them; and at this moment, in 
 the midst of a sudden trampling of horses behind 
 him, a shot rang out. The Mormons had come. 
 The thought flashed through Alfie's mind as his 
 right arm dropped dangling at his side, and his 
 sword fell to the ground. Before Houghteling, 
 who was beside him, had time to turn in his sad- 
 dle and to draw his revolver, Alfie having 
 seized his own with his left hand, turned, and 
 catching sight of Wivvers who had drawn up 
 his horse behind them, fired. Wivvers reeled in 
 his saddle, and as his pistol went off again, 
 tumbled headlong. 
 
 The eight other Mormons, whose fingers were 
 
374 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 on their triggers, fired a wild volley and then 
 wheeled and galloped off. Houghteling did not 
 shoot after them. Alfie was feeling his arm and 
 trying not to faint. He suddenly had to grab 
 hold of his saddle to steady himself. 
 
 Meanwhile the Penitentes, kicking, striking 
 blindly with their fists, and even biting, strug- 
 gled and fought with the soldiers, who during 1 
 the Mormon episode had their hands full; till 
 on hearing Alfie's shot and seeing Wivvers fall, 
 the fight seemed all at once to leave the Peni- 
 tentes, and, believing from Dolores's sobs that 
 their Christ was dead, they huddled together and 
 made but slight resistance more. Houghteling, 
 when he saw that Wivvers lay still, called to the 
 soldiers: "All right. Take them all!" 
 
 "I ain't all right," said Alfie, who had slipped 
 off and was leaning against his horse, trying to 
 laugh. 
 
 Father Chucho, who had torn off his chasuble 
 and his cassock and left them lying on the 
 chancel floor, running out after all the others, 
 resisted so fiercely that he felled one soldier by 
 a blow on the brow; and it took four more to 
 hold the little man. When he saw that it was 
 of no avail to fight, he stood still enough; but 
 speaking in Spanish to his cowed flock about 
 him, and specially to the muttering women who 
 kneeled beside Paez fallen on his cross, he ex- 
 
THE FIGHT AT THE CHURCH 375 
 
 horted them to be of good cheer, for the end 
 was not yet come! 
 
 The others were surrounded and tied together 
 by the soldiers, while Houghteling had the 
 church searched. The crown of cactus thorns, 
 nails, and a hammer were found on the altar. 
 
 "That looks serious," said Houghteling. "We 
 shall have to take them with us." And riding 
 up to Father Maria de Jesus, he saluted and said : 
 "Father, I fear my orders will require me to take 
 you and all of your men-folk to Denver with 
 me." 
 
 "And leave these poor stricken women alone/' 
 exclaimed the Father, horrified, waving his head 
 towards the frightened group huddled about old 
 Oestocris where she kneeled by the side of her 
 son, tearless and dazed. 
 
 However, resistance was again of no avail. 
 
 The priest translated the Captain's command 
 into Spanish. There was a moment of silence. 
 Then, the sobs of the women breaking out freely, 
 they clung passionately to their sons and hus- 
 bands. 
 
 Dolores still lay on the body on the cross. 
 
 Father Chucho was whispering encourage- 
 ment, when he was interrupted by the Captain's 
 saying, kindly but uncompromisingly: "We have 
 no time to spare. I trust you will get your men 
 together, Father; for I shall not order them to 
 
376 THE PENITENTES Os SAN RAFAEL 
 
 be dragged from their wives, except as a last 
 necessity." 
 
 "God forbid!" said the Father, and at once 
 spoke to them in Spanish. 
 
 The men, obedient as always, separated from 
 their wives and mothers, to whom Father Maria 
 de Jesus spoke a last word: "Be good, my chil- 
 dren, while I am away. Forgive your enemies; 
 pray for us. Do not forget to comfort the mother 
 of our dead who died in the Lord. I will have 
 father Emanuele send some one up to bury him. 
 And I will pray to God and trust Him to keep 
 you and care for you till He permits us to come 
 again. May He bless you!" 
 
 With outstretched hand and tearful eyes he 
 murmured his benediction upon the women and 
 upon San Rafael. 
 
 The last thing Stange saw as he looked back 
 was Dolores sitting on the sand with the head 
 of Paez in her lap, her head bent down over him. 
 
XLII 
 
 FAY'S FUTURE 
 
 DURING the last minutes of Houghtel- 
 ing' s interview with Father Maria de 
 Jesus, Peter Wezel had arrived at San 
 Rafael bringing Dumain and Devlin with him 
 in his mule wagon. The soldiers who had been 
 left to keep up the siege of the priest's house 
 were also with them. 
 
 Father Maria de Jesus, Cristoke, and some 
 others of the older men among the prisoners 
 were put into the wagon to ride to Antonito. 
 The others marched between two lines of 
 soldiers. 
 
 As the cavalcade was starting Dumain said to 
 Houghteling, smiling: "I see you have succeeded 
 admirably. Now don't you think my way was 
 the best, as proved by results?" 
 
 Houghteling did not answer him; but the 
 Jesuit pursued complaisantly: "However, I no- 
 ticed you've had to kill one man. I'm glad I 
 wasn't here to see that." 
 
 "He interfered with us," said Houghteling, 
 shortly, turning away again to give an order. 
 
 Dumain gave him a grim though rather 
 amused smile, and said no more. 
 
 At the stream, he offered to bandage Stange's 
 arm. Alfie willingly consented. 
 
 377 
 
7 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 "And perhaps you will tell me," he said coax- 
 ingly, while the operation was doing, "what 
 game you've been trying to work all along." 
 
 Dumain smiled and looked over at Mount 
 Blanca on the distant horizon. 
 
 "You see," he explained rather impersonally, 
 "my superiors thought Captain Houghteling 
 ought not to get to San Rafael too soon, but that 
 he ought to get there just soon enough." 
 
 "Ow, that hurts!" cried Alfie as the other 
 squeezed his arm. 
 
 And he asked no further questions. 
 
 Devlin, however, found a chance to* say to 
 the Jesuit: "Father, I can see how the result of 
 this has all been due to you." 
 
 Dumain smiled. "I thank you," he said; "but 
 God has given us all parts to play in this world." 
 
 They arrived at the hotel in time and to spare 
 for the three o'clock train. 
 
 "I guess Wivvers is sorry now he didn't go to 
 Cripple Creek," Wezel suddenly remarked, 
 dryly. 
 
 They were sitting waiting in the bar. 
 
 "Why, where is he?" asked Fay, looking up. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "He's dead," said Houghteling, at last. 
 
 "I killed him," ventured Alfie with a waver 
 in his voice. He hadn't liked to examine Wiv- 
 vers to see if he was really dead. 
 
 Then he said more steadily, seeing Fay still 
 
FAY'S FUTURE 379 
 
 as calm as usual: "I should be sorry, only he shot 
 me first. Besides, I think he's better out of the 
 way." 
 
 "Amen!" added Wezel, emphatically. 
 
 Fay stared at Alfie's arm in the white sling. 
 Finally she said, as if beginning a new subject 
 of conversation: "I don't know what I'm going 
 to do." 
 
 "You wouldn't have married him," declared 
 Alfie. 
 
 "Maybe I would," she said simply. 
 
 "I'll tell you what you'll do," said Alfie, with 
 an evident effort, getting up and going over to 
 her, and looking at her green sleeves; "you come 
 to Denver with me." 
 
 "I ain't got no money to go," drawled Fay. 
 
 "Never you mind," he smiled at her now. 
 "I've got enough. Go up and get your things 
 ready." 
 
 "Well, I can decide while I'm a-packin'," said 
 Fay, and left the room. 
 
 Stange stared after her, his back to the others, 
 and then went out, too. Houghteling immedi- 
 ately following, found him walking in front of 
 the hotel. 
 
 "You don't intend to take her," he said, facing 
 Alfie. 
 
 "I do, too," Stange answered defiantly. 
 
 "What are you going to do with her?" 
 
 "Take her to Colonel Monroe's wife She 
 
380 THE PENITENTES OF SAN RAFAEL 
 
 told me she had the hell of a time finding a good 
 steady girl." 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 "She's too nice a little girl to leave in this 
 God-forsaken hole, Dan." 
 
 "It's best for a soldier to leave his sweethearts 
 where he finds them, Alf. Among other women, 
 you'd soon see what a hulking farmer she is. 
 Mrs. Monroe wouldn't want her. And ten to 
 one it'd mean unhappiness either for you or the 
 girl. Better drop it, boy." 
 
 "It's none of your damned business!" said 
 Stange, rather weakly, looking at his friend's 
 eyes for one instant. 
 
 Then he turned and walked away. Houghtel- 
 ing watched him a moment, and angrily went in 
 again. Soon after he heard some one come in 
 and go whistling upstairs. 
 
 Half an hour later the Captain had his men 
 and his prisoners lined up at the station. 
 Dumain was there, too, and Wezel to see them 
 off. Houghteling paced alone up and down the 
 platform. As he passed the door, Alfred Stange 
 came out. The smoke of the approaching train 
 could be seen far down the tangent. Houghtel- 
 ing halted. 
 
 "Where is the girl?" he asked in a lowered 
 voice. 
 
FAY'S FUTURE 381 
 
 Alfie joined him, and they walked up the plat- 
 form again. 
 
 'The girl trim me down," he said debonairly. 
 
 "I guess you trim the girl down," said Hough- 
 teling, with a look of relief. 
 
 "The girl trun me down, I tell you. That's 
 a privilege ladies have." 
 
 Houghteling put his arm round Alfie's shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "That's my bad arm. Damn you!" cried 
 Alfie, wincing. 
 
 Houghteling dropped his hand. Then Alfie 
 put his good left arm round Houghteling's 
 shoulder. 
 
 THE END