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 a murmuring of plain linen, the whisk of poor cotton about their pious limbs.

They were marching along the wall to a certain pitted place which marked where others had stood before the soldiers' guns, Helena tall among the mean-statured, uniformed men. She walked calmly, no faltering in her feet, no turning of the head in the vain expectation, the unreasonable hope, that help might come. There was a pause now, waiting, it seemed, for the men with the cannon to unlimber the piece and remove the horses which obstructed the view of the people, whom the general desired so greatly to witness this deed, for the moral effect and repression of traitorous desires.

"Jesus! if there were ten men!" said the workman. He had pulled his broken hat down; it threw a shadow over his face.

"If there was one!" the young man who had been reproved by the old soldier said.

There was a great uprising of dust from the trampling of the four horses in the plaza, which the man in charge was lashing for some real or fancied fractiousness; those who were not praying, stood straining and stretching to see. The soldiers were placing her against the wall.

It seemed a long time to those who waited, the few moments that passed between the opening of the jail door and this short march beside the wall. The heart labored so in the bosom that it seemed smothering in the sea, the eyes strained until they


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 burned as in smoke. Pity was in the throat, pity was dry on the lips. It gave pain to bestow so much pity; it was as if the heart had gone dry.

"Jesus!" said the workman, tearing his shirt open on his hairy throat. "If there was a man!"

The young man who had replied bitterly to him before stood silent now; his head was bowed, the blood was gone out of his lips. The only answer to the workman's passionate wish was the murmur of women's praying, the sighing of men's breath as they braced themselves as for a leap.

Then, what a start, what a surging to the feet, what a bristling of wild hopes and terrors in that crowd! What a yell it was that came like a crashing stone into the plaza! what a rush of charging hoofs! Now shots, and wilder cries, and dusty horsemen riding into the plaza, death flashing from their hands.

"The Americans!"

"Fly, fly—the Americans!"

Some ran for the church door, some crouched against the church wall, some ran in the confusion of beating feet and flying dust from the plaza. In a moment, it seemed, the crowd was swept from the place where it had stood, broken, dispersed as smoke is scattered by the wind. Dust was a cloud that obscured everything; it swirled yellow as the smoke of an autumn fire in green chaparral against the lifting sun.

There was shouting in the plaza, and many shots. Only two horsemen had come against the

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 soldiers, it appeared, but they must be only the outriders of a thousand, they rode so boldly, shouting their defiance in the general's face, shooting down the soldiers as if they had pistols that never needed a ball.

Over against the wall one of them was engaged with three soldiers, the others who had formed the firing squad either having fallen or run away—there was such a tempest of dust that one could not see, except by glimpses as the desperate combat whirled. There was the gleam of the blessed young lady's dress—she was not hurt—there! A soldier had lunged out of the blinding cloud, the maddening, heart-stifling cloud, and driven his bayonet into the belly of the rescuer's horse! He was down, the legs of his horse turned upward like a toy, while it thrashed in the agony of death. Then the dust of the struggle closed around them; it was a blank.

The other of these daring, courageous angels—what could they be but heaven-directed to come in a moment of such pitiful need?—had flung himself from his horse, after driving the soldiers on that side of the plaza before him like leaves before a gale, and was now engaging the two artillerymen, who stood with bravery beside their gun.

"This is the time to help!" said the young man, looking about him with eager eyes as he stood against the padres' garden wall.

"I am with you, comrade," the workman answered. They ran together into the plaza, into the


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 sirocco of dust, where the red flame of death was leaping from pistol and gun.

Others came after them like the surge of released waters. It was a shout that ran the breadth of the pueblo, startling old men as they turned in their beds.

Over against the wall, Gabriel Henderson rose out of the misfortune of his fall, the gun of a slain soldier in his hands. His pistols were lost, his horse was groaning with its last breath; the dust was thick around him as fog on the hills. A moment, a little gleam. Helena's white dress fluttered, her hand was on his arm, pressing a pistol into his hand. Out of the fog of dust a soldier leaped, his blood-red bayonet darting like a serpent's tongue.

Thank God for the eyes of love, that could see the flung pistol fall against the wall; thank God for the quick heart of love that could find its way to his side, even through the obscuration of death. The soldier's bayonet was in the dust, his comrades' feet sounded as they ran.

Henderson had left the extra horse tied behind the corral of Felipe's friend, afraid that his charge into the plaza might be impeded by its tugging. His own animal, upon which he had relied to carry both Helena and himself out of the plaza, if fortune should give him the passage, was dead.

Felipe was at the cannon, for what sane purpose no man could tell, dismounted, master of the situation for the moment, but peril before him, where


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 General Garvanza was forming his panic-scattered men; behind him, it seemed, where the crowd came rushing like an overwhelming wave. Henderson was not cognizant of the people's friendly purpose. He believed they had won and lost.

"Fire! Charge them! Fire!"

It was the voice of Roberto, raised high in a shriek of fury at sight of this havoc among his forces.

"Come!" said Henderson, catching Helena by the hand.

"Charge them!" General Garvanza commanded, with no man steady enough to obey.

Panting, wild-eyed, bloody from wounds; amazed, confused, fearful that a force of these wild devourers was upon them, his soldiers huddled before him where he stood at the barracks door. He cursed them for their cowardice, threatened them with terrible punishment. Falteringly, confused in their movements, the soldiers from the plaza formed. Others came running out of the barracks, from the safety they had sought when the two comrades in this desperate chance had charged with the noise of twenty, the valor of a thousand.

Now another situation confronted the demoralized soldiers and their frantic general. The people had turned against them; they were pouring into the plaza, gathering around the man at the cannon, who stood with pistol raised in defiance of General Garvanza and all he represented. Gen-


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 eral Garvanza knew him and despised him. If curses could have blasted a man, poor Felipe must have fallen there.

A man out of the crowd stripped the harness from the saddled artillery horse, and put the bridle reins in Henderson's hand as he came up with Helena. A moment; Gabriel was in the saddle, Helena lifted to his arms by hands that touched her tenderly as if to soothe the hurt of the brutal usage that had bruised her heart.

It was a glad shout that bounded from the façade of the low brown garrison, fuel to the fury of Roberto's breast. He snatched a gun from a reluctant soldier, and shot him dead; from another, who fell to his knees in supplication at the general's feet.

"Charge!" Roberto shouted.

His fury descended to the soldiers, slow as they were to shake off their terror. They saw that no greater force was coming against them; that they had been shamed and defeated, their comrades slain, their general humiliated and defied, by two common men who were not even soldiers.

Now the people were against them, they were threatened with drawn pistols, with cobble-stones snatched from the top of the padres' wall. The soldiers crouched to the charge, bayonets fixed to tear out these treacherous people's hearts.

"Here—help me with this cannon!" Felipe shouted. "So! there now, back with you, my friends!"


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 "Your horse, comrade—go!" It was the young man who led the people, the friend whose wall had sheltered them in the night.

"I wonder if it is loaded?" Felipe muttered, training the cannon to bear on the soldiers, who came at the double on their charge.

"Felipe! Quick, your horse!" Henderson shouted.

Felipe raised his left hand like a fencer, seized the lanyard, the people fleeing from the impending discharge.

"Felipe!" Henderson appealed, reluctant, even in the peril that came charging across the plaza, to ride away and leave him there.

"Fire!" cried Roberto, lifting his sword high.

As the soldiers halted suddenly at the command, their pieces lifted in quick accord, Felipe pulled the lanyard. While the cannon rocked from the discharge he leaped to his saddle.

"Away then, comrade," he said.

Felipe waved his hat to the people as he passed, turning to see what slaughter that charge of grape-shot had made among General Garvanza's men.

"Yes, undoubtedly it was loaded," said Felipe, as he rode hard at his comrade's side.

The smoke of the cannon-shot still hovered blue in the early sun, shrouding from the shocked eyes of the people those who had fallen in its blast, when Don Abrahan came galloping into the plaza at the head of thirty men. His belated expedition for the rescue of his kinswoman from the hands of


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 his vengeful son, in the expectation of which Roberto had placed the cannon in the plaza, swept with consequence before the eyes of the people, who thought at first the Americans, indeed, had come.

Don Abrahan would have been too late to stay one tragedy that day. He had come only in time to dismount and kneel in the dust of the plaza beside his fallen son.


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ABLO GONZALES was returning home leisurely from the pueblo, his long legs appearing like an extra pair belonging to the burro which carried him, his toes were so near to the ground. It was an old burro, as Pablo was old, long-haired, shaggy, gray. It pattered along in short strides, head down, ears lopping forward, the bell on its bridle scarcely jingling, its gait so smooth and unbroken. Pablo said there was not another animal in the world that went with such an easy foot. It was comparable only to riding on a cloud.

Pablo squinted his eyes against the sun, at that level in the west when it strikes under a man's hatbrim, no matter how he slants it. He carried a sack in front of him, across the burro's withers, a lump of his purchases in each end, sitting himself on the soft long hair of the ancient beast, not so much as a saddle-blanket to give him dignity. As for comfort, neither saddle nor blanket, cushion nor pad would have added to that, according to his own long usage and belief.

It was said of Pablo's burro that it was as old as its owner, and more esteemed by him than all his other possessions combined. Such creatures, it was well known, lived to incredible age; there were


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 records of them in Mexico that had lived ninety years. Pablo refused to discuss its age. A woman's age should be inquired into only when she goes to be married; a burro's when it is to be sold. There was no money that could buy Pablo's friend and companion out of his kindly hands.

Pablo was still several miles from home; he could not reach it now until well after dark. It was well enough, he said, speaking to Benito, the ass, for there was a pleasure in seeing the hills at that distance as a man rode on his way. It seemed to him that he never had seen so much beauty in the hills before, the sun just looking back on the world over its shoulder, as a man might say, lighting the tops of them, ridge after ridge, peak after peak seeming to stand like islands out of the blue mysterious something that filled the canyons like the smoke of a million fires. And it was nothing when a man went down the mountains into it; nothing but shadows and gray rocks, and sage and laurel and chaparral, with little blue and red flowers between. That was the mystery of the blue filling that floated into the canyons at this hour of the day. A man might walk on the solidness of that blue, it seemed from here, or from the mountain tops, as he knew very well. But let the sun go down and it would vanish, cheating the eyes like a rainbow that seems to rest its column in a man's field.

No, truly, the hills never had appeared so beautiful in his eyes before. It troubled him to find the


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 world so fair at this late day. It was as in the case of a man who must leave home, never to come back to it again, walking about among things that have been familiar to him many years, discovering new beauty in each common shrub and flower that makes the heart hurt more when he turns away forever. Perhaps he must be leaving the hills soon, and the vega spread at their feet, and the soft winds that came roaming it from the sea. In paradise, it was said, were things sweeter than of this earth, but—but Well, a man would rather stay at home.

Now, who was this scarecrow that rose up in a man's way with a rag on his head? Not Simon of the eight mules? Truly, Simon. There was a lying look in the man's face. He turned his head to listen like a fugitive who expects horses at his heels.

"Pablo! for the love of Our Señora!" said Simon, putting out his hand like a beggar at the church door.

However loquacious to Benito on a long and unfrequented road, Pablo was a man whose tongue did not move with the wind. He stopped Benito, and sat looking at Simon with little interest and less of friendliness in his dry, brown face.

"Help a man whose life hangs by a thread!" Simon appealed, laying familiarly hold of Benito's bridle.

"Who is the man?" Pablo inquired, making his close eyes smaller.


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 "That man is I, Simon Villalobo. I am in the greatest danger that a man ever breathed."

"There is the whole world," said Pablo, sweeping his hand to embrace it. "Hide yourself from your enemies, Simon."

"I am weak; I suffer from a wound."

"Well, I can't carry you."

"You can help me, Pablo."

"I have helped many an honest man."

"I have broken from Don Abrahan's prison, curse him in the seven places! Because I helped the young American, Don Gabriel, escape, by a cunning plot between us it was, Pablo—have you not heard?"

"Would the wind tell me?" Pablo asked, indifference in his unmoved face.

"Of course it is impossible that you have seen him. I rave like a drunk man. Well, it was this way, Pablo, between Don Gabriel and me: I feigned that he struck me with the water pitcher, putting my head into his cell to take away his straw bed. We broke the pitcher against the bars, and I gave him my hands to tie, and opened my mouth for the silencer he put into it. But Don Abrahan is sharper than seven doctors. For the blow I pretended to receive he gave me this knocked head, he locked me in his prison, he swore he would hang me if Don Gabriel was not caught. Did they catch him? You have been to the pueblo, good Pablo—tell me if Don Gabriel has been caught?"

"There is life a mile long in a man who has so


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 much breath. Go your way, Simon Villalobo; that way is not mine."

Pablo clamped his knees three times in rapid sequence against Benito's ribs, that being the private and confidential signal between them for a quick and decisive start. Benito responded faithfully, if not with any shocking rapidity, jogging off on his short legs with dainty steps. Simon, not to be abandoned in his extremity in this cynical manner, came trotting beside Benito, well able to outrun him and have plenty of speed to spare, at the best gait he ever struck in all his useful years.

"For the love of Our Señor!" he pleaded, "do not run away and leave me here to die."

Pablo rode on, no pity in his face. Simon put out his hand to catch the bridle; Pablo pushed it aside with a manner of contemptuous denial and disbelief.

"I have heard there is a secret place somewhere on the old Guiterrez ranch, a place where the Franciscans hid, when the king's days ended here. They say that only you and Don Felipe know of this place, and Don Felipe, God receive him! he is dead."

Pablo rode on, his old eyes but a very little crack, indeed.

"Hide me in this place, Pablo, and all I have saved will be yours. Here—take this money and show me the place. What is gold to a man who is already dead!"

Simon produced several small gold-pieces as he


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 spoke, and offered them in his cupped hand to Pablo while he trotted easily at the burro's side. Pablo pressed Benito's sides in the signal to stop.

"Simon, your danger is greater than you understand," said Pablo, his voice deep and stern.

He rode on, leaving Simon in the road, his palm covered with the little gold coins, at which he looked now, and now after the dusty old man who had given him nothing but his contempt, and that without price.

Simon returned the money to his pocket. There was more cunning shrewdness in the fellow than malevolence; nature had not designed him for a villain of the first class. Asa pirate Simon would have failed in business, in spite of his audacity, his swelling manner and boastful, vain heart. He had sense enough to do what his patron ordered, and simplicity enough that he never troubled over the consequences. It was but a very small matter to him to kill a man if Don Abrahan desired it of him. It had been done.

"Old fool!" he said, looking after Pablo's dust. "Just as if you could swallow the road!"

Pablo went on his way, disturbed in his contemplation of the beauty of his native place. When he looked toward the hills now it was with another thought. Night closed upon him fully an hour before he reached home, hard as he pushed little Benito on the road. Felipe came softly out of the darkness near the sycamore to give him greeting in low and cautious word.


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 "Is everything well with the others?" Pablo inquired.

"Very well."

"And the young lady is tranquil?"

"She is as placid as if death had not come near enough to breathe in her face so lately."

"Well, there is news," said the old man calmly, his voice as dry as his lean face. "Roberto is not dead; he is on his feet again with nothing worse to show than a cut forehead."

"I thought the grape-shot took him, I saw him on the ground," Felipe said.

"No, it was a soldier struck him down with the butt of his gun when he gave the command to fire on the people. A hundred eyes saw it done. That man is a hero, though the blow he gave his general laid him flat and saved his skin. The grape-shot passed over him like a swarm of bees, but the man who struck him was killed."

"It must be that Roberto has been reserved for a rope," Felipe said. "I would not interfere with Providence; let him live."

"His day is approaching. It is true that the Americans have taken Monterey. Their general is marching into the South with cavalry."

"So it is true? Gabriel and Helena will leap at this news."

"Also, soldiers are coming from San Diego to reinforce General Garvanza and defend the pueblo. Don Abrahan has put down his quarrel with his son, the governor is united with them, all to make


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 a stand against the Americans. They swear they never will yield to the Americans, and Roberto, he has made a vow to Our Señora to burn Don Gabriel in chains."

"And for me? what has he sworn for me?"

"There is a paper speaking of reward for all of you posted in the plaza, another nailed to the church door. This is given above the general's hand. The lady and you are charged with treason, Don Gabriel as a spy."

"There is only one answer to Roberto's intention, then."

"I was told by soldiers who heard, that Don Abrahan pleaded with, commanded, his son to leave the lady out of this paper, but in vain. Roberto swears she shall die before the soldiers' guns. He is furious that two men should come between him and the vengeance of his jealous heart, by defeating his twenty-seven valiant soldiers."

"And a man can understand the state of his feelings," Felipe said.

"Nine of the soldiers will fight no more, Don Felipe. It was a fight of giants, all in the pueblo say."

"Nine thieves and murderers less in the world! So the republic pays for injustice and oppression, Pablo. I struck a blow for myself also, when I struck for Helena Sprague."

"They say the cannon took five of them, wounding others. The soldiers are no less furious than


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 General Garvanza; they are riding day and night in search of the three of you."

"They were at the door twice today," Felipe said.

"That is to be expected."

"We had anxiety of you, Pablo, so long on the way. We thought you had been held because it is known you are my friend."

"It is a slow business to hear many stories, and get hold of the handles of the true ones," the old man replied. "Well, I encountered a snake in the road."

"Of a color, Pablo?"

"The devil's color, you might say. Simon Villalobo is abroad with Don Abrahan's gold in his hand."

"He brought it to a poor market," said Felipe with such emphatic confidence that admitted no greater expression of praise for the old man's fidelity.

"He is following, a thought of Don Abrahan's promised reward, of the reward posted in the plaza, in his coyote's head. The ground has opened under the feet of fools, I have heard it said."

"It may swallow this one," Felipe returned. "There will be fools enough to stock the world, even without Simon."


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ABRIEL HENDERSON had no feeling of security in that place "where no soldier could follow." In the day of the old Guiterrez, surrounded by simple Indians who had no thought of the Spaniard's fondness for many exits to his abode, this tunneled retreat was very well; in the day of Roberto Garvanza, who knew all about its existence, though he might not know exactly where to find it, the thing was more a trap than a mysterious place of security.

It would be a small matter, when the reinforcements from San Diego arrived, to throw a guard of soldiers around old Pablo's place and cut off every hope of escape. Though the soldiers might fail to find the exits at once, hidden as they were in the brushwood and trees, a close search under determined direction would disclose them. Two men might hold off a regiment for a while, but endurance and ammunition would not last forever.

They were poorly armed. Henderson had lost two of his pistols in the fight, Felipe's weapons were old and ineffective except at close range. There was little ammunition between them; it was unsafe to raise the inevitable suspicion that would attend the purchase of more by Pablo.


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 The one wise thing to do was flee into the north. If there was truth in the news that Pablo had brought, they must meet the American forces on the move toward Los Angeles. If there was nothing but the fear of the oppressors and the hope of the oppressed in the rumor, they would be able to find refuge among strong friends.

Henderson was reluctant to assume command of the little party of refugees, although Felipe had invested him with the responsibility and dignity of leader from the moment they rode away from Don Abrahan's lane together. Henderson felt that his was a case where all should have a voice, the peril of all being equal.

Two of them already stood condemned as traitors, himself as a spy. Roberto had closed the case against them; no plea would soften the judgment he had pronounced, if any among them would be so base as to plead. With a thought of each of them being in a measure responsible for his own life, and himself responsible for Helena Sprague's entirely, Gabriel called Felipe into a discussion of their situation a little while after Pablo's return from the pueblo with his news.

They were in their underground quarters, the horses, saddled and ready for instant mounting, close at hand. The heavy door that the old hidalgo of other days had closed the mouth of his tunnel with was down from its hinges now, only the acacias clustered along the crumbling adobe wall that stood a little beyond the exit, shutting out the star-


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 light. The wind came in, fresh and sweet from the hills, moving the candle-flame, finding its way like a spy around the angles of the tunnel and compartment walls.

Felipe was tracing a map of the road to Monterey, marking its difficulties, its long windings through hills and along the coast-line.

"You see it is a very long road, Gabriel."

"Yes, it looks like there are no short cuts to liberty in this land. But the risk of the road is not as great as the risk of being trapped here."

"Besides," Felipe pressed, strong in his faith that his grandfather's tunnels would shelter and protect them as they had many refugees before them, "besides, Gabriel, we are not certain that the Americans have taken Monterey. We may look tomorrow to hear it denied. That is the way of this country."

"I've not allowed myself to expect anything but its denial, Felipe. We must go out prepared to face great dangers and run many perils, but we will be safer on the road hunted by a few soldiers, than shut here surrounded by many. Helena, what is your opinion?"

Helena had remained silent and apart, taking the place assigned to women in the affairs of the adobe dons. A woman was either a mother of a family, or a daughter designed to become a mother of a family. In the councils, plans, business and advancements of life, she had no word. Mass and confession attended to, safely marvied, a string of


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 children at her heels, a woman's work was well begun; with her bed made in holy ground, Aqui Descansa on the cross at her head, it was well done.

In spite of the fact that Helena had gone beyond her day and a woman's prerogatives in the business that had brought her to this perilous stand, she was surprised by being called, as an equal, into the council of their fate.

"I will follow the way that you lead, Gabriel," she said in simple trust.

"That is well spoken," said Felipe hastily, quick to cover his friend's weakness in appealing to the opinion of a woman.

Helena, cruelly wrenched by the experiences so lately passed, when "death breathed in her face" as Felipe had said, was white as orange blossoms in the candlelight. She sat on a heap of hay, en, veloped in a loose dark cloak, a dark scarf over her head, the ends of it streaming down her bosom, a background for the two men who bent over the paper spread between them. It seemed that the bold spirit, the independent will, was broken in her. Anxiety strained out of her eyes; she seemed like one who sits in patient, dull suffering, counting the night hours, from whose eyes sleep has fled away.

Henderson sat on a keg that once had contained cognac, its burned brand plain to be read, the crippled wing of his hat still held gallantly up by a thorn. His face was rough and hairy, untouched


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 by razor since the night he quitted Don Abrahan's house.

Across from him was Felipe, seated on a block of wood, the black islets of his face now almost submerged in the forest of beard that sprung thick around them. Felipe's sombrero was pushed back from his eyes, admitting the light to his face. The candle stood between them on a broken chair, drawing their strength and weakness in strong, revealing lines. A man did not consider the niceties of bodily adornment when life itself was running in frantic seeking, like a mouse shut in a room.

At one side of them the three horses loomed large in the shadow, their eyes luminous as they turned a head now and then and caught a beam of light.

Such was the picture of the refugees from Don Roberto's jealous vengeance as they considered life and death, calmly as other men and women, in happier surroundings, their hopes unclouded, considered their dinners or their amusements for the night.

"Soldiers will be here, and here," Felipe said, indicating the spots on his map, "keeping the road, Gabriel. Here, at the summit of the pass, three could hold a regiment."

"Roberto hasn't the men to spare to guard all these places, Felipe."

"You forget that Don Abrahan has raised his friends. He can gather forty or fifty men."

"From what I've seen of them, Felipe, they're


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 not the kind that would stand sentinel at night along the road."

"The news of your brave rescue"

"Felipe! I'd have been like a gun without a bullet only for your counsel and help. It was more your success than mine."

"Not so, not so, Don Gabriel. What if the cannon had not been loaded? Ha! I was only a spark that the wind blew, falling in the right place at the right time."

"We'll not argue it over again now, Felipe," Henderson said, smiling at his friend's vehement depreciation of his part in that adventure. "Let's leave it for a contention between us when we're old. Is there no pass, no road, through these mountains called Santa Monica to the west of here?"

"There is a pass, coming down into the king's road to the north near Buena Ventura, but it is steep, long and difficult. Few travel that way. It would require two days, at least, to cross by that pass, only to come out into the arms of soldiers on the other side, I fear."

"That would be a road too slow for us, then."

"But here, sheltered as we are, soldiers may pass up and down, over our very heads, and never find us. If I did not know how the Franciscan fathers lay here, Gabriel, with eager soldiers of the republic hunting them, it would be a thing to doubt."


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 "Yes, but they were priests, after all, Felipe. I doubt if the hunt was made with both eyes open."

"No man but Pablo has entered this place in years, the memory of it is gone, the servants of my grandfather's day are in their graves long ago. Why, I can lead you to wine-barrels, Gabriel, that are full since my grandfather's time. Pablo is saving them in the hope that I'll step into my inheritance on a day, but that is a hope without a leaf. Do you think those barrels would have lain there full of wine if the way to them had been known?"

"It doesn't seem reasonable that they would, Felipe."

"No, it is out of all human probability to con's ider such a thing. Trust my sanctuary a day longer, then, Gabriel. Pablo has arranged for a friend to come tomorrow with news of the Americans. If they have not arrived at Monterey, if we must expect no help from that quarter, then it will be time to go."

"Very well," Gabriel agreed, "we will wait one day more." He folded Felipe's map hurriedly and put it in his pocket. "It is past ten, and my watch at the door."

There was no moon, yet in the peculiar clearness of those summer skies the stars were almost of tropical effulgence. The acacia trees, quick-growing, thick, and dark of foliage, clustered along the high adobe wall that once had enclosed the old Guiterrez' extensive grounds. Beyond the acacias,


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 sycamore and live-oak spread in a rambling growth along the little stream, dry in summer, which drained the rainfall from the distant hills. Between these trees there stood a thick growth of smaller trees and shrubs, and beyond them the upgrown lands which once had been the tilled fields of the Guiterrez ranch. Except for large trees, this land had returned to the wilderness of its original state, no particular line being apparent now between the old fields and the virgin country.

Cattle of the neighboring drovers grazed over this territory, which varied between open pasture and tangled brush-growth for miles. Trails known to the vaqueros ran through it all, familiar to Felipe. Gabriel knew that Felipe could lead them in a confusing and entangling race against any who might pursue them, if they had alarm of the searching detail in time.

The landscape lay dark under the stars as Henderson mounted to the fallen coping of the adobe wall to look over it and listen into the shadows of the trees. The measured sawing of insect fiddlers rose and fell in the acacia grove, pulsing, with the beat that nature seemed to set for all night-singing creatures of the woods, with those whose music dimmed away into the distant bosque. One might pass along the wall within a dozen feet of their retreat, never thinking that those sought lay so near. Again, one might creep close and lay his ear to the ground, listening for footsteps, for low voices that might, in the sense of security,


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 lift a note too high. Such a one was Simon, crafty, sneaking, fit figure for the night.

So, by the wall Henderson leaned and listened the night full of its strident cacophony, beaten in the rhythm of nature's eternal metronome. It seemed secure there, yet night gives that sense to a hunted thing, too often beguiling and perilous. And in his waiting the horned owl came into the sycamore grove to prey on the feathered creatures that reposed in the false security of the dark, his rolling voice startling them in bewilderment to blunder in confusion into his talons. The snake glided along the adobe wall, the rustle of its passing in the leaves, stealthy upon the track of fieldmouse that danced in the deep shades and felt secure; the armored beetle the cold, repellent worm—all came from the place that covered them to seize and destroy, pursue and slay the things beneath them weaker in their order, impotent in their defense. Even the moth slipped into the beehive to suck the product of the drowsing swarm; the mean to prey upon the industrious, the loathsome to swallow the beautiful, the sluggish to spread its slime to ensnare the fleet.

There was no pause in the great tragedy of nature, Henderson reflected, leaning with arms against the crumbling wall. Man swallowed man by day; snake gulped mouse by night. It was a cloying, despicable situation that a man held among these rapacious things, cursed with passions that would not let him rise above the little and the


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 loathsome of creation that devoured their weaker kindred in the dark.

"It is one o'clock," said Felipe, coming softly behind his watching friend, a note of chiding in his voice. "You have let me sleep too long."

"I haven't noticed the passing of time, Felipe. You are welcome to the hour."

"Look at the Great Bear, sinking behind the hills like a boat that goes down in the sea," said Felipe. "It will soon be dawn."

"Yes, in two hours it—the bell!"

"Perhaps a bird"

"Twice! Pablo is"

"It must be that he turned in a dream," said Felipe, after they had stood listening for the bell to ring again, breath suspended, hearts beating low.

"I don't hear any movement around the house," Henderson whispered. "If it was the signal—unless the string parted."

"No." Felipe laid his hand on Gabriel's arm, straining to read some sound of danger in the dark. "If it comes three times"

The tinkle of the bell in the roof of the vault broke Felipe's breathless speech.

"Three! They have come!" said Henderson.

"The signal to go!" said Felipe, almost stunned by amazement. He was reluctant to believe that danger could threaten them in his ancestor's burrow. "Hear it! that is a horse sounding its nose."


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 "They are surrounding the house," Henderson whispered, coming down from the wall.

"They will try to force Pablo to show them the place. Simon must have read in his face that we were here."

"They'll never be able to torture it out of him," Henderson said, "but his wife might tell, to save him."

"No, she is of a piece with Pablo. They might as well build a fire against the sycamore tree expecting to make it tell. There is time for us to go. What road shall we try—the pass to the west?"

"No. We'll be safest where we're least expected, Felipe. We'll take the king's road."

"Thank God for the night!" Felipe said.


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OBODY is following," said Felipe, satisfaction in his words.

He came forward to join his companions, waiting where the obscure path which they had been following joined the king's broad highway that led to Monterey. Dawn had come before they emerged from the bosque through which Felipe had led them a cautious, winding way.

Henderson now recognized his surroundings. They had come to the camino real, or royal road, something more than a mile distant from Don Abrahan's house, near the point where the great highway branched, one road to enter the pass, one to go to San Gabriel Mission to the east.

"You are a master guide, Felipe," Henderson praised him.

"Before the sun rises hundreds of cattle and sheep will cross and follow the paths we have traveled, covering our tracks like rain. Do we go on, Gabriel?"

"On to Monterey," Henderson replied, giving his horse rein, "unless we meet better fortune in the road."

"Then we would join with better fortune, certainly," said Felipe, so well pleased with the


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 beginning that his spirits were rising over the disappointment of having to quit his grandfather's retreat.

To one who might meet and casually pass them on the road, it would appear that three men were on their way to the north that summer morning. Helena had assumed man's attire the day Henderson and Felipe brought her to Pablo's house, partly for the disguise it might afford, mainly to facilitate her flight when it came to taking horse again. She seemed a handsome youth, fresh of cheek as an apricot in that growing day, her abundant hair—which she would have sacrified to her disguise only for Henderson's stern prohibition—gathered under her sombrero, the immense brim of which shadowed her face. Her all-enveloping cloak covered her limbs to the stirrups, leaving little of the lines of her body to betray her.

Helena's shocked mind had cast off its oppression of fear with the gloom of her underground hiding-place. She rode with a lively brightness in her eyes, a quick ear for every sound, a hearty determination in her pose, the fullest confidence in Gabriel Henderson's ability to carry her to safety in the face of the strongest army that ever marched. Now and then she turned to express this confidence in a smile that sprung in her sympathetic eyes and warmed her face with its glow.

They were approaching the dividing-point in the road, where the right-hand branch led eastward to San Gabriel, the left through the pass


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 to the north, riding with slack rein, conserving their horses, not knowing what hot race might lay ahead. Felipe rode a little in advance, beginning now to show some new anxiety as day broadened and they approached the point of their greatest danger. The pass would be guarded, he told them. How they were to get through, whether by strategy or fight, he was leaving to his general, as he called Henderson, to decide when the question should rise before them in the road.

Helena drew up suddenly, lifting a cautioning hand.

"I thought I heard horses," she said.

Henderson listened, facing his horse about. Felipe turned in his saddle, his young beard as black on his face as a mask.

"Yes, there are horses behind us," Henderson said, the wing of this approaching trouble flitting its shadow across his merry eyes.

"They are crossing the rocky arroyo not a quarter of a mile back," Felipe said. He returned a little way, listening to judge their numbers by their noise.

"There must be a great many," Helena whispered, one hand on her lips as if to silence her own fear, the other lifted in cautioning appeal.

"We will go into the bushes and let them pass," Henderson directed. "If there are men guarding the pass we must not be caught between two forces at the very start."

"There is a sound of wheels," Felipe an-


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 nounced, as they waited well withdrawn from the road, screened by the thick bosque.

"Yes; it may be only freighters, I'll ride back for a glimpse of them," Henderson said. "If they are soldiers, we'll let them pass, then go on our way."

"Our way?" Felipe repeated. "But, my general, it will be full of soldiers."

"When I come back," said Henderson, assuring them with a smile.

Henderson dismounted when he had gone a little way on his reconnoitre, thinking his head might be seen above the bushes. The road here wound close against the foot of the hills, flanked by the natural growth of brushwood and small trees, with the rounded top of a dark-green live-oak lifting here and there.

Henderson had his plan of action in mind as he returned to spy out the nature and number of this party that came with so much noise along the road. He recalled how he had surveyed the valley of San Fernando from the mountain as he lay hidden on Helena Sprague's ranch; how the valley came down between the hills to join that of San Gabriel, like a river running into the sea. If these were soldiers, they would lie quiet in the bosque and let them go their way, then he would lead his little party to the mouth of San Fernando valley, around this pass where Roberto's trap was set and waiting.

This course would lead them far from the road


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 they must follow to Monterey, delay them two or three precious days, perhaps. But the valley was broad and densely overgrown; an army could not cover it so completely that a determined few could not pass through.

The advancing party had crossed the stony bed of the dry wash—in winter a torrent of yellow, headlong water from the hills—and was proceeding with more speed. Now Henderson glimpsed them through the bushes. Soldiers. But far from the formidable force that he had expected from the clatter and loud clash of wheels. The sight of them gave Henderson a new hope, kindled the quick fire of an audacious plan.

Henderson saw a party of three soldiers, one of them a petty officer, conducting with a four-horse team if not the identical small cannon, then its twin, that Felipe had discharged in the plaza with such sanguinary toll. The detail must have left the pueblo before midnight to be so well on the way to the summit of the pass, whither Henderson supposed they were bound, doutless to reinforce the guard stationed there to stop the march of the Americans who were believed to be coming from Monterey.

The soldiers were dusty, tired, indifferent; poor material at their best. The petty officer rode a few paces in advance, his cap pulled down to his eyes, so confident of the security of the road that he seemed to be asleep. One man rode a saddled horse in the lead team, the third sat on the am-


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 munition-box, wide enough awake from the jolting he had been given in crossing the rocky arroyo.

Henderson was still a short distance ahead of the soldiers, far enough that he calculated, together with his distance from the road, that he might mount and hurry back to carry out the scheme that had come to him with more boldness than reason to recommend it. The soldiers were approaching one of the innumerable short curves in the road. Henderson rode hard, careless of noise, to gain the farther side of this sharp bend in the king's highway.

Felipe heard him galloping through the bosque.

"It is the soldiers," he said, turning to Helena, pistol in hand. "If your poor defenders should prove too weak, ride fast to San Gabriel, seek a refuge there."

"No," she returned, calmly. "If my brave defenders fall, I shall fall with them. Don Felipe, you carry two pistols; give me one of them."

Felipe's admiration for her courage lifted him like the news of victory. He put the pistol in her hand as Henderson burst out of the brush into a fire-cleared opening not fifty yards away.

"He is riding past us, he is turning into the road!" said Felipe, consternation smiting him coldly. "It cannot be that he is leaving us!" He rode from the cover of the bushes, caution aside in the face of this astounding action by his friend.

"He is charging them!" said Helena. "He is a thousand men!"


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 "God protect him!" said Felipe. "Back—back to the shelter of the bosque until one of us returns!"

The officer had halted his little cavalcade, alarmed by the passing of somebody on his flank, whose noise he heard in the bosque like a whirlwind, but whose form he did not see. He was turning inquiringly, hand going slowly, as if he questioned the need of it, to his pistol; the man in the saddle behind him was leaning back on his hardmouthed mount, holding the beast with curses; the soldier who rode the ammunition-box stood half-risen, braced by rigid arms.

A sudden dash of hoofs in the road ahead of them, a clatter of galloping, a wild yell. The officer in advance—Henderson never knew what rank it was he held—snatched his pistol and fired one quick wild shot at the rider who leaped into his astonished sight around the bend in the road. This duty done to his honor and his country, the officer wheeled his horse and galloped away.

The man on the ammunition-box leaped over the wheel, tumbled into the roadside bosque, disappeared like a rabbit; the postilion lifted his hands high above his head, straining to his tiptoes in his stirrups to stretch them higher, begging for mercy, his fear no doubt making every grain of dust that rose behind Henderson a terrible American, such as took no aim but'never missed.

Felipe came charging through the curtain of


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 dust to strengthen this illusion, looking around with fierce whiskered face for somebody who stood his ground and wanted a bullet to make him yield it to a proper man. He saw only Henderson whisking the pistol from the artilleryman's holster, and commanding him to sit still.

"It is the cannon, it is the very cannon!" said Felipe, his eyes bright in the joy of this tremendous feat.

"Quick! see if it is loaded," Henderson directed.

Felipe flung himself from the saddle, ran to the cannon to sound it for a charge.

"It is not loaded, general," the soldier said, his eyes big with the fear for his life.

"How many are coming behind you?" Henderson asked him.

"Not a man," the soldier returned.

Helena had come up, Felipe's imperious command having stayed her in the bosque a little while, but no longer than the sound of the shot the officer fired, the one shot of the encounter. She was fo thrilled by the sight she saw, her pride in the man who had seen his moment and employed it, rose with such well-ing tenderness that her eyes were blinded for a little by her tears. She rode forward, pistol in her hand. The frightened soldier again made his frantic signal of surrender, lifting his hands high.

"Do you know how to load it, Felipe?" Henderson inquired anxiously.


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 "I have been a colonel of artillery," Felipe returned somewhat haughtily, a little hurt.

"A million pardons, my good, brave friend. I might have known."

"It was nothing," Felipe waved it away, peering into the cannon's mouth; "it was not said."

Helena could not trust her voice to sound as a soldier's voice should ring in the moment of victory. She ranged her horse beside Henderson's, and paid him what she could with a smile. Felipe looked up from loading the gun.

"He is not only a thousand men; he is ten thousand!" he said. "Now, my general!" as he rammed the charge of grape-shot down.

"You are ready?"

"Ready, my general. To the pass! One shot will clear it, then on to Monterey!"

"No, not to the pass," said Henderson. "Turn it the other way; we're going back."

"Back, Gabriel?" Helena seemed to protest. The forces of her past anguish assailed her, driving her courage away.

"Back?" Felipe repeated, face blank in amazement. "Why, we'll meet the soldiers, they'll take the cannon away from us, Gabriel. With this little cannon we can go marching to Monterey like conquerors, we can clear our way like a fire."

"It is a long distance to Monterey," said Gabriel, "the situation there is doubtful. There is a better way. We will make terms with General Garvanza through Don Abrahan."


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 "But how?" Felipe inquired, full of perplexity and doubt. "One little cannon, not more than twelve rounds of ammunition, and two men!"

"One little cannon can knock down a man's house," Henderson said.

Felipe looked at him, the light of understanding spreading in his black-whiskered face.

"It is a fine scheme!" he applauded. "In that case one little cannon can make a very good argument."

"We'll be equal to an army of five hundred men."

"Ten thousand, five hundred men!" Felipe declared fervently. "Soldier," addressing the artilleryman in his native tongue, "do you fight with us?"

"With pleasure, brave colonel," the man replied.

"About, then, and forward!" Felipe commanded.


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HERE was a gleam of yellow sunlight on Don Abrahan's gables as the party of the cannon, no longer refugees, drew up to the head of the olive lane. The stir of early morning gave a liveliness to the back portion of the premises of which the front offered no indication, for, like the houses of the great everywhere, Don Abrahan's front door was the last to open on the day.

Henderson and Helena rode in front, the artilleryman in his parrot-green uniform following with his four horses. Felipe rode the ammunition-box, ready to unlimber the piece in a moment and stand on his defense. Determination and confidence made up whatever the party might be lacking in numbers. Henderson flung the gate open; the cannon trundled under the spreading limbs of the oak where Helena had found refuge on a well-remembered night.

It was as if some monster came upon a man while he slept, the manner of that cannon's arrival in the courtyard of Don Abrahan's mansion. Don Abrahan, indeed, was asleep, far beyond his usual hour for waking. He had been on the road late last night, leading his men to surround Pablo Gonzales' house in the empty raid that came of Simon's


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 spying. It was almost the dawn of day when Don Abrahan returned home, his neighbors dispersed in no fine humor over the fruitless groping after these elusive refugees in the dark.

When the cannon was wheeled to place in the courtyard, swung around with expedition by Felipe and trained on Don Abrahan's house, there was a mighty running of those who witnessed it to spread the news. Don Gabriel had come back, bringing a huge great cannon, and was that moment about to blow Don Abrahan into eternity as he lay snoring on his bed! Such a wakening of old men who were unable to toil in the fields, such a hurrying of young ones to see this triumphant return of one who had served beside them in peonage only a few days ago!

Felipe chose his place for the cannon with a view to defense as well as assault, placing it near that end of the long warehouse in which his former office was. This gave him a defense in the rear and on one flank, the other being open, but easy to' protect by a hasty barrier if need for it arose. Henderson rode into the patio and beat with his pistol on Don Abrahan's bedroom door.

Don Abrahan's wits were cloyed by the dregs of sleep, which lies heavily on a weary man or a fevered man at the hour of sunrise. He came in his nightgown to the door, opening it a little, showing his narrow face. No man is invested with dignity when standing in his nightgown with his face at the crack of a door, especially when sleep,


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XII.]

She spake: “My lord belovéd, I pray thee, for my sake,

Lend me thine aid; that Siegfried may with thy sister take

Their journey to this country,— that here we them may see;—

For nothing that could happen would be more sweet to me.

“Thy sister’s gentle breeding and well-contented mood,

Whene’er I think upon them, in sooth, it doth me good.

How we did sit together, when first I was thy wife!

Right well hath she deservéd bold Siegfried’s love and life.”

So long she thus besought him, until the king did say:

Be sure that guests more welcome could ne’er be any day;

’Tis easy to persuade me! and messengers of mine

I’ll send unto the couple, to bring them to the Rhine.”

Then spake the queen yet further: “Now also you must say

When you will send to fetch them, and at what time we may

Look for our well-loved kinsfolk to come unto our land:

And whom you purpose sending I fain would understand.”

“That will I do,” the king said: “thirty of mine own men

Will I send riding thither.” These did he summon then,

And by them sent his message unto Prince Siegfried’s land.

Dame Brunhild to content them gave much apparel grand.

Then said the king: “This message ye’ll take, my warriors bold,

Wherewith I now entrust ye —see that ye naught withhold—

Unto the mighty Siegfried and to my sister dear:

That in this world doth no one  more kindness to them bear.


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 alarm, and the scurrying emotions that rise and fly out of his head like startled birds, all are contending for expression in his slumber-stiffened countenance. Don Abrahan's voice was rusty in his throat.

"What is it? Who is sounding on a man's door at this hour?" the patron demanded, evidently mistaking Henderson for a messenger from his own clan.

"Open the door wide, Don Abrahan, get into your clothes and come with me," Henderson ordered him, not gently in any particular.

"It is the voice of Gabriel, my errant son," said Don Abrahan, quick to see that all was not beginning well for him that day, quick to lay the oil of his placative tongue to the trouble standing before his door.

"It is the body of Gabriel, also," Henderson replied, "and the pistol of Gabriel that you are looking into this moment. Be wise, Don Abrahan; make haste. If you lay hand to a weapon, that moment, I swear, will be your last."

"This is an unfriendly manner to call a man from his bed, Gabriel, my son," the patron rebuked him in his patriarchal fashion.

"There is no friendship between me and your kind, sir," Henderson corrected him savagely.

"But it is not well, with the gentleness I always had in my heart for you, Don Gabriel, to come to my door with a pistol."

"Not alone a pistol," said Henderson. He


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 reined near, kicked the door wide open, motioned Don Abrahan outside with imperious gesture. "Look, Don Abrahan, at the animal that has come with me."

"A cannon!" Don Abrahan gasped. "God save us! Gabriel," appealing with supplicating eyes, "you would not"

"I would," said Henderson roughly. "Now hurry."

In the door Don Abrahan twisted his neck to look back at the threatening cannon, Felipe standing ready, a growing crowd of the patron's Indians and subject countrymen gathering in wonder and admiration behind. That moment the patron's heart fell like a bucket in a well. He felt that his consequence had departed, that alien hands had laid hold of him and his at last. His limbs trembled as he drew on his pantaloons, his hands were cold when they touched his flesh. There was weakness in his legs when he came into the sun; the melancholy color of hopelessness was in his face.

"What is your pleasure, Don Gabriel?" he inquired, meek and afraid.

Henderson indicated that he was to proceed into the courtyard and make closer acquaintance with the cannon and those who stood at its breech. Helena withdrew into Don Felipe's office, as it was still called, as it would be designated during the memory of those who had known Don Felipe in it through all his faithful years.

"Felipe!" Don Abrahan was shocked out of


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 his depression and fear at recognition of his former mayordomo. "So, you also return to humble me."

"Would I return to exalt you, small tyrant, slavemaker, oppressor of the poor?" Felipe asked, speaking in Castilian, that all assembed might understand.

A murmur and a movement passed through the crowd. It was as if men stretched in their bonds, lifting their heads again in hope.

"You, that came a beggar and left a thief!" Don Abrahan said, a flush of deep resentment spreading in his thin face.

"Here is the judge, here he stands!" said Felipe, laying his hand on the cannon.

Again the movement; again the murmur, that seemed now almost a cry. Don Abrahan gathered dignity out of his wrath, turned his back on Felipe as on one unworthy and low.

"Don Gabriel, what is your pleasure with me?" he asked.

"Send to the pueblo, or where he is to be found, for your son," Henderson said. "If soldiers or others accompany him, they must not approach within a mile of this place. Give him to understand that plainly. The moment this particular of my orders is ignored, I'll fire on your house. More than that, you, personally, will be held responsible."

"I cannot answer for him, Don Gabriel. He may refuse to parley, he may ignore a command


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 issuing from no higher authority than an individual who is proscribed by the laws of this land, if you will forgive me."

"Tell him I am acting for the United States government, in whose name I have seized this country."

There was a great deal of hope, not a little contempt, in Don Abrahan's face as he looked around, plainly for the army that was to enforce the demands of this self-appointed commander. The gleam like the reflection of firelight, of laughter that was not yet mirth, stood again in Don Abrahan's eyes. He was recovering himself, now that he saw through the mighty bombast, as he believed, of this simple sailor from a Yankee ship.

"I will send a messenger to General Garvanza and deliver to him your desires," he said with false complaisance, false respect.

"Not my desires, sir; my commands," Henderson corrected, the sternness of his voice like a stone against Don Abrahan's ear.

"I will send him the word, Don Gabriel."

"In the meantime, it will be necessary to re strain you," Henderson announced. There is a compartment here, "indicating the warehouse, 'that I have occupied"

"I give you my word that I will not attempt to leave this place," Don Abrahan hastily pledged.

"You could not be blamed, under the conditions, if you failed to keep it," Henderson replied, inflexible as Don Abrahan's own whipping-post.


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 That was the way it came about that Don Abrahan occupied his own prison, with its cross-barred door of iron, its thick outer door of oak, both of which were locked securely upon him. His keeper was an ancient Indian, called forward by Felipe, a man whose proud spirit had remained unbroken through more than fifty years of injustice at the hands of Don Abrahan's father and Don Abrahan after him. This man had suffered hunger and thirst in the narrow cell; he had felt the bite of the lash at the whipping-post. It was not a merciful jailer that was set over Don Abrahan Garvanza. In all his years Don Abrahan had not been keeping an account that would credit mercy due him at the end.

Helena came from her retirement in Don Felipe's office when Don Abrahan had been taken away. There had been great wonder, great admiration, expressed concerning this handsome caballero among the simple people. It was fitting, they said, that such as this one, and Don Gabriel with his laughing eyes, should bring liberty to the oppressed who labored their lives away to pay their endless debts to Don Abrahan. For was it not well understood that when the Americans came, all men were to own land and be free?

"My general," said Helena, approaching softly behind Henderson, speaking over his shoulder.

He turned with such eagerness that many guessed the truth hidden by Helena's long cloak and broad sombrero. They were almost confirmed


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 in it when he smiled, and the light of his eyes grew happier.

"There is another order that I ask you to give," Helena said. "Please send to the house and direct Doña Carlota to bring my dresses."

"Why not go yourself? She can't lock you up again."

"It is a treacherous house, I'll not enter it again, Gabriel. My place is in the field, besides. I am a soldier, I fare as soldiers fare—only I want my dresses."

So it was ordered, and Doña Carlota came, not stooping to a maid's service, certainly, but followed by women who carried Helena's wardrobe overflowing in their arms.

"Where is my dove?" Doña Carlota demanded, full of terror for the cannon, giving it wide room in passing.

She stopped near the door where Helena waited her, a black mantilla over her sleek hair. She was afraid of the idle people who had given themselves a holiday without so much as a look toward Don Abrahan for permission. Simon, the temporary overseer—there being no new mayordomo appointed yet in Don Felipe's place—being away on greater affairs, and not likely in the present state of things to be especially anxious to return. Doña Carlota was afraid, above all things, of Don Felipe, whom she had not recognized in his grim black smear of beard, his dusty clothing and fierce, keen fighting air.


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 "Oh, my little dove! save me from these savages!" she appealed, turning her fat eyes around in quaking fright.

"Inside with you now, old lady," Felipe commanded.

Doña Carlota, not yet recognizing him, was almost dissolved in fright. Her knees were melting under her fat body, she was about to bend in supplication to this fierce, black man when Henderson, having regard for her sex, if no pity for her panic, directed her to Helena's retreat.

Felipe had found a ready response to his call for volunteers. Many of the men on Don Abrahan's plantation, like himself, had borne arms, even if they had not done much fighting, in the rebellion. Their hope of freedom and equality before the law had vanished with the establishment of the new regime. No man's debt had been cancelled by the shift from one rule to another, it appeared; the peon had remained a peon, and such was his sad condition still.

Now the Americans were coming, said Don Felipe; the dust of their approach was on the horizon. It was very likely that all of them would be American citizens or outlaws against American authority before the sun set twice. To such as came forward like good and valiant men at this time, rewards would be forthcoming.

Felipe took that assurance on himself, knowing the reluctance of men to risk even the smallest thing without the hope or promise of reward. The


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 artilleryman taken with the cannon had laid aside his green uniform, and now appeared in a workman's dress. He was active in his assistance to Felipe, whom he called colonel, knowing very well what his payment would be if he ever was so unlucky as to fall into General Garvanza's hands.

Don Abrahan had several guns of assorted kind, the accumulation of years, and powder in great store, laid by for trading purposes in the warehouse. A few additional guns, hidden by the laborers on the ranch, were produced, making sufficient to arm twelve men.

Out of this number guards were set, Felipe himself keeping charge of the cannon. Privately he told Henderson that it was a little early yet to rely on the valor or loyalty of his recruits.

"A man who has been a slave a long time has little fire in him," he said. "There is nothing like a taste of liberty to put courage in a man's blood. But let the news get abroad that we are up, and three hundred men will join us before night. If the Americans do not come then, we will have a revolution, at least. We will overthrow the tyrants ourselves."

Then, if the Americans did not come? That was a question that began to rise before Henderson at every turn. Here they were, two men and one woman, in the midst of a vast country, by the authority of which they stood outlawed. Let it turn out that the story from Monterey was but a frightened rumor, that the Americans had not


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 taken that place, and what would their situation be?

He began to regret the impulse that had carried him into that adventure, tempting as the way of it had been. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have gone on as he had planned in case of encountering soldiers in the pass, around to the mouth of San Fernando valley, risking the perils of the longer journey, rather than to have made this bold step. It would be impossible to hold out indefinitely there; fatigue would overwhelm them in the end, though Roberto Garvanza might fail. But it was said that soldiers were on the march from San Diego. The fact that General Garvanza had sent his only cannon to hold the pass would seem proof that they were coming in force, well armed.

And, on the other hand, there was argument in Roberto's act of defense that seemed evidence that the Americans were on their way. Roberto would not have sent the cannon for any other purpose than to check their advance. No, it was not to stop three refugees that Roberto had dispatched his one little field-piece to that vantage-place in the road. The Americans were coming; the news was true.

Still, it was a long distance from Monterey to Los Angeles; two or three important towns which must be subdued lay between. It might take ten days, it might take longer, for the forces to come. Meantime, how long could they hold their ad-


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 vantage over Roberto? How long could they apart from any question of force, endure?

Don Abrahan's life was in his hands, but, vindictive as he had felt toward him when he had vowed to avenge John Toberman's death, Henderson was not savage enough to consider any extreme measure in the old man's case. Only in the event that Roberto would not grant terms, and give guaranty that such terms would be respected, would he hang Don Abrahan to his own oak, as he deserved, for his cowardly crime against Toberman.

This whole exploit seemed an empty thing now to have undertaken. The higher the sun mounted, the clearer this view of it grew. Day makes wreckage of so many defenses that men build in the night, as the illuminating beam of reason discovers the fatuity of so much that is prideful and vain.

There was very little hope of escape from the shores of that country by ship. The Boston ships would have sailed clear of those hostile waters on the first news of war; the ships of other nations seldom came there to risk the contraband trade which the Americans had pushed so boldly. Commerce always had been discouraged on that coast, even prohibited, under the Spanish rule, with little more encouragement under the Mexican government. No more Boston ships would round the Horn until peace came, and no man could tell when that would be.

What, then, would be the situation of these beleaguered three in a few days, perhaps a few hours,


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 more? Henderson now felt that he had added desperation to desperation by his wild charge on the cannon, his rash decision in coming there to compel Roberto Garvanza's leniency, even to granting freedom to them all, by striking through Don Abrahan. It had appeared a simple solution of their troubles at first; now it seemed only a destructive blunder. What would he not give that hour, indeed, to know whether the Americans had come.

One thing was apparent, to a grave certainty: now that he had made this spectacular dash, he must maintain his position. There must be no weakening, no soft yielding to importunity or appeal. He was dealing with treacherous, unfeeling, unsympathetic people, cruel to their inmost fiber. He must make his heart as hard as an armadillo. If necessary to hang Don Abrahan, then Don Abrahan must hang with no more grace for his pleading or his prayers than he had granted to John Toberman in his somber extremity.

"Felipe, we must have a flag," he said, firm now in his resolution to carry his head high and hold his hand firm to the end.

"I have had that thought, Gabriel."

"Helena must contrive one for us; I'll speak to her. How long ought it to take Don Abrahan's messenger to reach Roberto, how soon may we expect to hear from him?"

"The messenger will be two hours on the way to the pueblo, counting for gossip by the side of


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 the road. An hour more for Roberto, who must not seem in a hurry in order to save his dignity and his pride; another hour for him to make the passage from the pueblo to this place. It will be past noon, Gabriel."

"Have them piece out a pole of some kind, and nail it to the whipping-post, Felipe. We'll put it to an honorable use for once, at least. We'll have the United States flag up when General Garvanza comes. It will be equal to another cannon."


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WILL not go and leave you among savages," Doña Carlota declared.

"Your protection is neither necessary nor desired, Doña Carlota," Helena informed her, with cold, unfriendly front.

"I know the formalities, no matter for your unruly independence, young lady. I will remain. My despised protection may be something to cling to like a bird in a gale before this day is done."

"Your protection, Doña Carlota! Your memory is short. It was you that betrayed me to savages, it was your treason that sent me to what would have been my death but for the strong arms of valiant gentlemen. You are more of a savage than the meanest here, Doña Carlota."

"Doña Carlota, Doña Carlota!" the fat little lady repeated, with contemptuous mimicry, her face flaming at the affront. "Have you forgotten my relationship, do you no longer remember your duty to your elders—well, if I am not so much older, either!"

"The door opens to your hand, Doña Carlota; it will be well to go."

"Go? I shall not go until Don Abrahan commands you to the house again, to your room. Then


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 let us see them discharge their cannon into the house, let us see!"

"Don Abrahan is to be hung for the murder of John Toberman before the sun goes down. Now, Doña Carlota, return to your prayers."

Helena opened the door as she spoke, extending her hand in expressive invitation to be gone.

"They will not dare touch Don Abrahan!" Doña Carlota said, flaming in a fresh sweep of anger, rising with such speed as was her best from the chair where she had sat in defiance. "For every drop of his blood"

"There is no blood when they hang a man, Doña Carlota. You shall see."

"I am going directly to Don Abrahan to tell him of this threatened indignity to his person. This moment I am going."

"Pass close along the wall, Doña Carlota, and you will hear him groan," Helena said. If there was something of malicious satisfaction, of un-tempered cruelty, in her voice, in the triumphant brightness of her eyes, it was only her Castilian blood speaking, as it will assert itself on occasion unfailingly as a congenital taint.

"If these savages have laid a hand on him"

"Is it possible you have not heard, Doña Carlota? He is in his own prison, where"

"In prison! I will send at once to General Garvanza"

"He has been commanded already to attend the American general, Doña Carlota."


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 "American general! peon that he is, poor villain!"

"If he knew that you betrayed him, that it was your treacherous tongue that sent me out to die, he would hang you beside Don Abrahan. Keep quiet, Doña Carlota, and go."

Doña Carlota's anger left her with a draining away of blood from her hot cheeks. She seemed to sink and collapse, like some inflated toy; her anger had distended her to such importance and outstanding feather. Her voice was weak when she spoke; her fat eyes were wide with fright.

"But, my most dear little dove," she protested, in wheedling, ingratiating tone, "Don Roberto did not intend the soldiers to fire. Did you not know? Oh, never such a heartless thought in his breast. It was only to frighten you out of further plotting with the base Yankees—that was his reason, my desired."

"If you had stood where I stood, Doña Carlota, you would have known it was a lie."

"Don't tell the American general, my beautiful! I am a weak old woman; I am a thing too despicable for his noble vengeance. Let me pass to my prayers, let me pass to my prayers!"

"The door is open, Doña Carlota."

"But the cannon, the terrible cannon! It points to the house, Helena. If they fire it I shall be killed."

"That is true; that is as they intend. Perhaps you'd better ask Don Gabriel to lock you up in the


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 cell with Don Abrahan. You can exchange confidences there, Doña Carlota."

"I—but, Helena, in prison there are rats!"

"Yes, and there is remorse, and there is penitence, three things that you could suffer with profit to your body and soul, Doña Carlota."

"Ah, you call me only Doña Carlota; you forget the tender tie of blood. But you jest, Helena; you do not mean for me to seek a safe place in prison. There must be another place—here, here with you, my little Helena—Iet me remain."

"It is impossible, Doña Carlota."

Helena was unmoved by the plea of blood, by the quaking cowardice of the weak creature who had betrayed her.

"There is no shelter; they will tear holes in the house with the cannon," Doña Carlota moaned.

"Try the houses of the poor; they are safe from the cannon," Helena suggested. "If there is one that remembers a kindness at your hands, there you will find a friend."

Doña Carlota stood looking into her niece's face with appealing eyes. She saw only denial there, the unforgiving coldness of distrust. The fear that Helena would disclose her treachery to Gabriel Henderson grew in her like the infection of a foul disease. As the small in kindness, the narrow in benevolence, the niggard in generosity invariably judge, she measured Helena's thoughts by her own, unable to see that her punishment lay only in the young woman's distrust and denial of her.


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 "I am afraid, I am afraid!" Doña Carlota shuddered, turning back again from the open door.

"You were a member of Don Abrahan's household many years while I was away in the convent school," Helena reminded her. "Think, Doña Carlota; there must be somebody who owes you for a kind word or deed who will repay you now."

"Oh, I fear to leave your protection."

"The general is coming this way, he is coming here, Doña Carlota. You must go; he has eyes like the magic crystal that reveals the secrets of the heart."

"There was Cecilia, if she would remember," Doña Carlota said, but doubtfully, in trepidation, one foot toward the door.

"She has a good memory. There is her house, the last one, with the goat pen under the window. Here—draw your mantilla close around your face—the general may not know you. My cloak—here, cover your dress—and be quick, or I will not answer for you."

Helena watched her from the door as she hurried away to seek sanctuary against no other danger than her own conscience and fear. Weak sycophant that she was, treacherous friend that she had been, Helena felt the humor, rather more keenly than the punishment, that attended Doña Carlota's downfall. She could not restrain a smile as she watched the pudgy figure waddling off like a Yiddish mama going from market with a goose under her arm.


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 Yet Helena was implacable in her determination that Doña Carlota should suffer to her full capability for the babbling that had brought this sudden cloud of tragedy into her own life. John Toberman, good friend, honest man, competent adviser, was dead as a direct result of Doña Carlota's great eagerness to win favor with Don Abrahan.

Doña Carlota was dependent on the charitable mercy of her people; she had no estate of her own. She had looked forward to a sunny room in Don Abrahan's patio for her age, when she had sent him word that her niece was hiding the American sailor on her ranch, from which betrayal all this outspreading trouble had grown.

Let her go now to the poor, and gather the harvest of her kind deeds. It would be a scant one, Helena knew. Even Doña Carlota could not recall one act out of all her years that was bearing interest to her credit among the poor.

So Doña Carlota went on to the house of Cecilia, her legs bending under her load of flesh and fright like candles in the summer heat.

Cecilia stood before her door, watching the activities in the courtyard, or as much as she could see of them, with eager eyes. Cecilia's house stood well away from the patron's mansion, as has been said, on account of the strong flavor of the goat pens, especially in rainy weather. She was responsible to the patron for the goats, although the labor of ranging them out to graze had come down to the nimbler feet of her daughter Liseta. It was all one


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 to Don Abrahan, who worked on payment of the never-ending, and never-to-be-ended, family debt.

Cecilia had a stiff knee from a fall over a cliff in the early darkness of a winter day when Liseta was nine years old. Since that time Liseta had gone with the goats alone, becoming notable in her calling from San Gabriel to the sea. Yet there was no offer from the young men to marry Liseta, on account of her mother's debt to the patron, for many of them had hope that they might at length come clear of their own inherited obligations to Don Abrahan and walk away to shape their lives in other places.

This failure of Liseta to marry, although she was little more than a child in years, had added to the bitterness of Cecilia's heart and the sharpness of her tongue. When she could no longer go with the goats to the hills in winter and early spring, to the wide valley in summer, on account of her stiff knee, Don Abrahan had provided her a spinningwheel and set one of the ancient women who knew the art to teach her.

Cecilia never had become deft in spinning, due to her natural stubbornness and determination not to make herself over into a new value to her tyrannous patron in the days when a woman ought to take the sun in peace outside her door, with knees drawn up, eyes half closed upon her dreams. Owing to this, Don Abrahan declared her debt to him was growing instead of diminishing. That being so, Cecilia reasoned, there was no sense in


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 working desperately against a thing that would have no end.

Cecilia was one of the most ardent secret champions of the Americans, since it was said that every person's debt would be forgiven when they came. She stood now at her door, hands idle from her task, waiting for somebody to come from the scene of activities in the courtyard and give her the latest news. Don Abrahan had been locked in his own prison, she knew. She felt now that she was free; defiance sat on her lips, gleamed in her eyes. Poor Liseta, who had watched in hope from day to day for the Americans to come marching from Monterey, had missed this great development at her own door, out with the goats since the first break of dawn.

Now who was this coming down the hill, with the head of a woman and the body of a barrel? There was nobody on that ranch, man or woman, living under the pressure of Don Abrahan's hand, who had the leisure or the substance to accumulate so much fat.

Cecilia's curiosity impelled her forward a little to meet this mystery on the way.

"I am looking for Cecilia," Doña Carlota panted, weak between terror and the labor of walking down the hill.

"Is it possible, lady?" Cecilia asked, rude mockery in her words.

She saw that Doña Carlota had not recognized her, and she was insolent in the strength of the new


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 estate which she believed had fallen to her, making her equal to the best.

"They said she lived down here where the goats are kept. Do you know—can you tell me?"

"Just there, but she is not at home. What do you want with Cecilia? She is not accustomed to such visitors."

"Her door is open; I'll go in and wait," Doña Carlota said, passing on.

"I am taking care of her house, woman," Cecilia spoke with rude familiarity; "you can tell me what you want, as well as Cecilia herself."

"Come in, then," said Doña Carlota, entering without formality, unable even in her imagined peril to understand that a trespass could be imposed upon the poor. "Close the door—so. Now, run for Cecilia; tell her to come to me at once."

"She will come soon—the other chair, the other chair! that one was not made to hold a horse. What do you want, Doña Carlota, coming to this house?"

"You know me? But I do not remember"

"No. How should you remember? Well, what do you want?"

"I am in deadly peril; the American general threatens to hang me to a tree! Go, good thing, and call Cecilia."

"What could Cecilia do to stop him? How do you know she would try?"

"Cecilia loves me dearly, old woman—we were


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 girls together, Cecilia and I. Do you think she will come soon?"

"She is here now, Doña Carlota. I am Cecilia."

"You Cecilia? Yes, but forgive my fright; I did not know you at the first word. But now, but now!"

"No wonder you did not know me, fat, monstrous animal!"

Cecilia, standing before her visitor, bent to bring her face near. She was rude, insulting, triumphant in her belief that the day of liberty had arrived.

"But now, dear little Cecilia, but now," Doña Carlota whimpered, abasing herself in her cowardly, foolish, unsubstantial heart before this poor creature whom she had, but a moment ago, patronized a little openly, and secretly despised in her superiority.

"No, you did not know me, Doña Carlota, because work has made me old, and a hard master has made me lame; because hunger and tears have scratched my face, and sorrow has made me gray. No, you did not know me, Doña Carlota. All the years that you lived here in Don Abrahan's house you did not have a word of remembrance of the days when we played together, little girls, when I was too small to work and you were too young to be fat."

"I do remember, dear Cecilia."

"And so do I remember. You were a stingy, greedy, selfish little pig, just a little picture of the


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 big sow you have grown to be. When were you kind tome? When did you speak to Don Abrahan to spare my Liseta her long days on the hills with the goats?"

"Ah, but you will hide me from the savage Americans, good Cecilia—I will give you my earrings—here, here—good little Cecilia!"

"There were times when I stood by the road in the rain, and you passed in the carriage with no recollection of other years. When my Man'el died—and he was my husband; we were married by the priest—I did not feel your hand on my sad head. Now, when you need a friend, oh what a tender heart!"

"They are pointing the cannon toward the mansion, ready to fire. I cannot hide there, I cannot hide there! But here, pretty Cecilia"

"You betrayed Don Gabriel; your false tongue killed John Toberman, who never kept man or woman in slavery for a debt. It was your fat tongue, licking lies, that sent that white dove Helena to stand in the plaza before the soldiers' guns. Let the rope be a strong one that Don Gabriel puts around your neck!"

Doña Carlota forgot her station, her dignity. She precipitated herself to her knees, debasing hidalgo blood as it never had been humbled before, lifting appealing hands to the half-Indian peon woman, who drew back from her in disdain.

"Here are the rings from my fingers, the chain from my neck, my rosary—it has pearls"


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 "Keep it for your last prayer," Cecilia said, repelling her with hand outspread.

"There is a mantilla half made, of the finest"

"It would not make my cheeks round again, Carlota, nor cure my stiff leg. Ask them to cover your face with it when you are dead. I cannot hide you here. You must go."

"I have no more to offer you—I am poor," said Doña Carlota in despair.

"I do not hide people who betray the noble and the kind. You must leave my house this moment, Doña Carlota."

"There is no place under heaven that will hide me from them!" Doña Carlota said, her tongue stiff with terror.

"Go to the one you have wronged deepest," Cecilia counseled, laying her hand with something of tenderness, something of pity, on Doña Carlota's shoulder.

"She drove me from her!" Doña Carlota groaned.

"Go back in penitence, poor fool! The Americans do not fight women; Don Gabriel will not hang you."

Doña Carlota climbed the hill slowly, shame and contrition in her foolish, shallow mind, where fear had flooded but a little while before. Her fat face was drenched with tears, which came as easily to her as sweat on a summer day, when she appeared before Helena's door.


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 "You are the one I have wronged deepest. Cecilia sent me," she said.

Gabriel Henderson's straw pallet still lay in the harness-room behind Don Felipe's office. There Helena composed the weeping creature, who felt true penitence for the first time in her selfish life.


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ECILIA'S repute as a needlewoman was as wide-reaching as her daughter's fame as a fleet-footed keeper of goats. All the years that Cecilia herself had followed the flocks of Don Abrahan on hill and valley pasture, she had taken her sewing with her. From the crudity of untutored beginning in necessity of clothing herself, she had advanced to artistry such as few among the deft-handed women of her race attain. Many a wedding garment she had fashioned by candle after her long hours with the goats, no compensation for her labor but the benefaction of love.

Once, when Helena was a child, Cecilia had worked for weeks, perhaps months, decorating with fine silken flowers a sash for the occasion of her first communion. It had been her tribute for some kind act on the child's part, some considerate, sympathetic little thing that would have meant no more in the lives of thase intimately associated with her than the rustle of a leaf. In Cecilia's barren existence, her heart hungry for human kindness, it had been a noble, a sweet, memorable deed. The passing of the gift had been accepted as a pledge of friendship by both; that dainty sash, wrought by rough fingers in the devotion of grati-


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 tude, had bound them in strange sympathy all the years after.

Now Cecilia was gray and wrinkled, aged by the hardship of her lot twenty years before her time, but no older, indeed, than Doña Carlota, whose hair was showing only a little sprinkling of the salt of time, and this easily hidden by drawing the untainted locks down over it. But Cecilia's fingers remained as cunning as ever, and to Cecilia's art Helena turned for assistance in contriving the flag that Henderson required for his staff.

"We cannot make all the little stars, Helena, and have it finished before Roberto comes," Cecilia said. "The stitching around the edges to hold them when the wind blows would take hours alone."

Cecilia looked out of the door as she spoke, and turned her ear to listen for horses on the hard road.

"They are not coming yet, Cecilia?"

"No, but they will come. Roberto will be full of fire and spite, like a cat. Let us cut two stars for each side, one for you, one for Don Gabriel."

Helena hesitated, shears idle a moment in her hand. Presently she shook her head.

"No. I do not know that my star belongs with Don Gabriel's," she said.

"There is no doubt of that. Two stars"

"One," said Helena decisively, shaping it hastily.

The little community had been laid under tribute to furnish the color for the flag, but it was the


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 most willing contribution to any cause they ever had made. Helena provided a white satin gown for the foundation of it, two poor women produced cloth for the red stripes, one a scarlet bit of silk, treasured long in the hope of adding to it some fortunate day enough to make a dress; another a red cotton sash that had graced her girlish waist in fiestas long ago. Cecilia herself furnished the blue for the field, silk as delicate as the impalpable curtains that spread in the canyons at eventide.

While Cecilia stitched the star in place, Helena sat in pensive attitude, chin in hand, gazing through the dusty window where Don Felipe's back used to be seen by those who passed. Henderson was talking with the captured artilleryman, who had changed his allegiance with his clothes. The man was pointing toward the pass, doubtless giving information concerning the destination of the cannon. Men were arriving from the fields, where they had dropped scythe, hoe, and plow on hearing the news. There was doubt and fear in the bearing of most of them, eagerness in a few.

Felipe was receiving these arrivals from Don Abrahan's fields, whither they had gone before sunrise to begin their long and burdensome day. A group of them collected around him, listening with turnings of the head as if to watch against some treacherous surprise. Some of them seemed ready to follow the former mayordomo who appeared before them today in open and armed defiance of the authority that he had been the


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 embodiment of in their eyes but a little while ago. Others withdrew, still with that doubtful turning of the head, that silent movement of fear, the promise of a larger liberty too dim and improbable to tempt them out of their established ways.

Helena felt doubt and fear cloud coldly over her as she sat watching this scene so strange for the courtyard of Don Abrahan Garvanza. There were but two out of the many who came and went, and stood at arms in her sight, that bore the unquestionable stamp of determination—Gabriel, steady and grave; Felipe, a flame in the wind.

These two alone could be relied on if it came to a desperate stand of days against Roberto's harassing forces. The poor fellows who strutted now with their arms would dwindle away into the safety of the bosque if the test of vigilance by night and defense by day should try them. Their kind and nature she knew too well.

"Here is the flag," said Cecilia, "the last stitch done in time."

Helena held it by its corners at arms' length before her, looking at the curious effect of their hasty collaboration. The result was not artistic, rather crudely flamboyant, but it was better than she had expected.

"Call Don Gabriel," she requested, drawing back according to her breeding and the traditions of her caste from so forward a thing as hailing a man from the door.

Henderson hurried to her, appearing at the


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 door with his dusty hat in his hand. She spread the flag before him, lifting it until she was all hidden but her eyes.

"What a beautiful flag you've made!" said Henderson, looking over the blue field of it into her eyes.

"We hurried to finish it," she explained; "there wasn't time for all the stars. So we made only one; Don Gabriel—Gabriel. One star—for you."

"Why, Helena," he said, pleased, embarrassed, flushing to his fair hair, "you made it—it's your star."

"No," shaking her head gravely, "mine would be so lonely all alone."

Henderson let his thorn-pinned hat fall as he stretched his arms to receive the flag, laying hold of the hands that held it, lowering them a little to uncover her face.

"There is no star in the heavens as lonesome as mine would be without one for you beside it," he said.

Cecilia withdrew a little from the door, wise in her hour. She stood aside like a sentinel, guarding the romance within.

"Then, if it is neither your star nor mine, Gabriel?" Helena asked, glad in what he had declared.

"It is California's," he answered, with happy inspiration.

Henderson raised the flag with his own hands, Helena watching from the window. Felipe saluted


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 it as it stretched in the wind; the women and children stood in the road before their houses to see. But in the expectation of Roberto's coming, and the doubt and uncertainty that waited on that event, nobody but those under arms was now permitted to approach the courtyard.

According to Felipe's calculations, it was time for Roberto to answer the summons, either by courier or alone, as directed, or at the head of his soldiers, as expected. Felipe and his assistant gunner stood ready to train the cannon on the quarter from which a charge might come. It was Felipe's pride that he had disposed his artillery in such position that this could happen in only two points.

It was past midday; the men who had volunteered in the precarious cause of liberty as championed by Henderson and Felipe had been served bountiful rations from Don Abrahan's storehouse. There was no dust of Roberto's coming in the road to the pueblo—only the sound of a tinkling bell out of sight beyond the olive lane. Henderson paused in his impatient, disturbed striding up and down beside the storehouse wall.

There was a familiar sound in that bell, but he was unable to determine where, under what conditions, he had heard it before. And the picture of Pablo Gonzales and his burro rose in his mind, provoking a smile. In a little while Pablo himself, seated in dignity and ease on Benito's back, came in sight between the olive trees.

Pablo was not unattended. A man trudged


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 ahead of him, and from the carriage of that man it was easy to see that his hands were tied at his back. It was easier to determine, in the eyes of all who knew him, that the man whq marched in such public disgrace was nobody but Simon Villalobo, the driver of eight mules.

The discovery of this fact set up no small commotion among the people gathered before their houses on the slope of the hill. They passed the word from one to another that Simon was to be shot, without any foundation for it at all, except, perhaps, their belief that he deserved no less, and their hope that he might be paid according to his merits. Simon's wife appeared, weeping and frantic, and had to be restrained from rushing to meet him. Her neighbors held her back with gentle determination. Don Gabriel would have her shot if she set foot near the cannon, they said. It was a thing to see, the look in Don Gabriel's face, so calm and cold it made a man's blood sink to his heels.

When Pablo came through the gate it was seen that the rope which bound Simon's hands was snubbed around Benito's thick little body also. Not trusting the long legs of his prisoner, in spite of the two pistols and knife which he carried at his belt, Pablo had anchored him so he could not run without dragging the burro after him.

The old man's face was as drowsily dusty as if he had just been stirred from a nap beside the road when he pressed Benito's sides and stopped him' near the cannon. He was smoking a little cigarette


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 in corn-husk wrapper; it seemed as if he closed his eyes against the sharp savor of it as he sat with dangling legs, toes almost on the ground, never a word out of his bearded, dry old mouth. There was a look of cynical pleasure on his face that Henderson never had seen before.

Henderson knew him well enough to give him his own time to tell what there was to be told. Simon stood looking at the flag, the cannon, the men with guns, plainly very much concerned over his situation.

Pablo united the rope that passed around his donkey's body and gave the end of it to Henderson.

"Here is an old goat," he said.

"There's rope enough to hang him here," Henderson remarked, as seriously as if the speculation were a forecast of his intention.

"It will do the work," Pablo nodded.

"But it would seem like a waste of a good rope," said Henderson. "What have you got to say for yourself? you sneaking scoundrel!"

"For the love of Our Señor, Don Gabriel, do not hang me!" Simon pleaded.

"What do you think, Pablo?"

Pablo raised his thin shoulders, lifted his shaggy eyebrows, spread his hands, in expression of complete surrender of all opinion in the case. That done, he lapsed into an attitude of serene and complete indifference.

Simon was an unhappy figure to see, dusty and jaded between fear and fatigue. His big mustache


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 hung over his mouth; his lean jaws were black with a beard-growth of several days. He saw his neighbors strutting around the courtyard under that strange flag, with guns on their shoulders; he saw Don Felipe, grown fierce in a day, looking at him as if to put a pistol behind his ear and blow out his light. Still the rascal had the vanity in him, the foolish confidence in his own cunning, to attempt another tale.

"Now, it was this way, Don Gabriel," he began, setting his voice in confidential pitch. "When Don Abrahan left me there to watch the house of my old friend Pablo, it was a thing that I despised myself for doing. But what was a poor man, whose wife and children were at Don Abrahan's mercy, to do? I wanted to come to your side, always; I swore a vow to Our Señora that I would not lift my hand against you at any man's order again. So the word came that you had caught the cannon, and had hung Don Abrahan to a tree for his crimes. Then I told myself it was the time for me to desert and go to your side, Don Gabriel. But Don Roberto might catch me; he might hang me for a deserter, although I am not a soldier. That would be a small matter to Don Roberto. Is it not so, Don Gabriel?"

Henderson indicated by an impatient movement of the hand that he was to hurry on with his defense. Simon turned a shade paler, and swallowed like a man breathing smoke.

"So I put my back against Pablo's wall and went