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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3507.R59I3 
 
 In the shadow of the Alamo, 
 
 3 1924 022 365 732 
 
The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022365732 
 
Bg Clara 2)rtscoll 
 
 THE GIRL OF LA GLORIA 
 
 Crown 8vo, illustrated in color 
 by Hugh Ditzler. J1.50 
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE ALAMO, and 
 
 Other Texas Tales. 
 
 Crown 8vo, illustrated by Flor- 
 ence Eagar Ji-SO 
 
 (5. p. Putnam's Sons 
 
 flew jBorl! lon&on 
 
IN THE SHADOW 
 OF THE ALAMO 
 
 By 
 
 Clara Driscoll 
 
 Author of " The Girl of La Gloria," etc. 
 Illustrated by Florence Eagar 
 
 ^ 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK & LONDON 
 
 Zbc 1Rntcl?crt)ochcr press 
 
 1906 
 
Copyright, 1906 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARA DRISCOLL 
 
 Ube Knlclierbocliei; picm, mew ffiocli 
 
To 
 Mrs. Mary Kingdon 
 
Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Custodian of the Alamo: 
 
 I. The Past .... 3 
 
 II. The Present ... 30 
 Sister Genevieve . . -55 
 juana of the mission de la concepcion 79 
 The Old Priest of San Francisco de la 
 
 EsPADA .... 105 
 
 -Itjntress . . . .123 
 
 -. .„.j,.,_..^, THE Chilt Queen . . . 145 
 
 The Red Rose OF San Josi . . .163 
 
THE CUSTODIAN OF THE 
 ALAMO 
 
THE CUSTODIAN OF THE 
 ALAMO 
 
 I 
 The Past 
 
 ly/lORE than two himdred years ago 
 Spanish missionaries built a chain 
 of fortress-churches stretching from the 
 Sabine to the Rio Grande. To-day these 
 churches are ruins. 
 
 Out of the chaos of crumbhng stone 
 rusting iron, fading colors, and defaced 
 carvings stands one picturesque edifice, 
 grim, sinister, silent, marked by the scars 
 of battle and stained with the blood of 
 brave souls who fought and died in its 
 defence. It is the shrine of Texas in- 
 dependence and glory, the most con- 
 spicuous monument left to the memory 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 of her brave and heroic sons. Though 
 situated in the business centre of that 
 quaint old Spanish-American city of San 
 
 Antonio, it stands apart and aloof, 
 wrapped in its own solitude. 
 
 This crumbling ruin is the chapel of 
 the Mission of San Antonio de Valero, 
 named the Alamo — the Spanish for Cot- 
 tonwood — from the trees along the river 
 bank and acequia. First established on 
 the Rio Grande in 170c, the Mission was 
 removed to San Antonio in 17 18, and to 
 the spot on which it now stands in 1 744. 
 4 
 
The Alamo 
 
 The fall of the Alamo occurred March 6, 
 1836. 
 
 To understand and appreciate the 
 story of the Alamo, and the devotion of 
 that little band of brave men who died 
 there, one must know the conditions 
 existing between Mexico and Texas at 
 that time. 
 
 The American settlers, mostly from 
 Tennessee, Connecticut, Mississippi, and 
 Kentucky, who had come to Texas with 
 the fair promises of the Mexicans ringing 
 in their ears, soon learned on what false 
 and empty words they had relied. The 
 protection which they had counted upon, 
 and which they had reason to expect, 
 was denied them by their swarthy- 
 skinned neighbors. 
 
 When Santa Anna, the President of 
 Mexico, fearing the independent spirit of 
 the Texans and foreseeing probable diffi- 
 culty with them, issued an order that all 
 s 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 arms should be surrendered by the 
 Texans, these indomitable pioneers arose 
 in indignation and absolutely refused to 
 obey. Then followed 
 the fight at Gonzales 
 for the possession of 
 a brass cannon held 
 by the Texans, with 
 the result that the 
 Mexican troops were 
 scattered. 
 Just before the skirmish the Rev. W. 
 P. Smith, a man much admired and 
 loved by the pioneers for his courage 
 and goodness, addressed his fellow-de- 
 fenders of Texas liberty with the follow- 
 ing spirited words: 
 
 '"Mexico has now sent an army to 
 commence the disarming system. Give 
 up this cannon and we may surrender our 
 small arms also, and at once be the vassals 
 of the most unstable and most imbecile 
 
The Alamo 
 
 government upon earth. Will Texas give 
 up her arms? Every response is No, 
 never! Never will she submit to such 
 degradation. Fellow-soldiers, the cause 
 for which we are contending is just, 
 honorable, glorious — our liberty. 
 
 "The same blood that animated the 
 hearts of our ancestors in 1776 still flows 
 warm in our veins. Let us present a bold 
 front to the enemy. In niimerical strength 
 the nation against which we contend is 
 our superior, but so just and holy is the 
 cause for which we contend that the 
 strong arm of Jehovah will lead us on to 
 victory, to glory, and to empire. With 
 us, everything is at stake — our firesides, 
 our wives, our children, and our country 
 
 "We must conquer." 
 
 The Texans were now fully awakened 
 to the gravity of the situation. Sam 
 Houston, the man who afterwards be- 
 came President of the Republic of Texas, 
 7 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 was made commander of the forces to be 
 raised in the eastern part of the State. 
 His first address shows of what sterHng, 
 fearless qualities these fathers of an em- 
 pire State were composed. 
 It reads as follows : 
 
 " The time has arrived when the revo- 
 lutions in the interior 
 of Mexico have resulted 
 in the creation of a dic- 
 tator, and Texas is 
 compelled to assume an 
 attitude defensive of her 
 rights and the lives and 
 property of her citizens. 
 War is our only alterna- 
 tive. ' War in defence of 
 our rights' must be our 
 motto. The morning of 
 glory has dawned upon 
 us. The work of liberty 
 has begun. Our actions are to be- 
 
The Alamo 
 
 come a part of the history of mankind. 
 Patriot milHons will sympathize with our 
 struggles, while nations will admire our 
 achievements. 
 
 "Rally around the standard of the 
 constitvition, entrench 3^our rights with 
 manly resolution, and defend them with 
 heroic firmness. Let your valor proclaim 
 to the world that liberty is your birth- 
 right. We cannot be conquered by all 
 the arts of anarchy and despotism com- 
 bined. In Heaven and valorous hearts 
 we repose our confidence. " 
 
 When there went forth proclamations 
 with words as patriotic as these, it is 
 no wonder that the alien sons of Texas 
 gained the glorious independence they 
 sought for the State of their adoption. 
 Following closely on the fight at Gonzales 
 was the capture of Goliad by the Texans, 
 and the battle of Conception, also a de- 
 cided victory for the cause of liberty. 
 
 9 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 A general consultation at San Felipe 
 was held and Sam Houston was made 
 
 commander-in-chief of the 
 
 army of Texas. Then came 
 the capture of San Anto- 
 nio, and Santa Anna, en- 
 raged at the defeat of the 
 army under General Cos, 
 determined to subdue at all 
 costs the successful Texans. 
 The conditions of the surrender of 
 General Cos manifested a spirit of fair- 
 ness, even generosity, on the part of the 
 patriots. 
 
 " I. Cos and his army were allowed to 
 depart with their arms and private prop- 
 erty on the promise that they woiold never 
 oppose the retiim of Mexico to a purely 
 repubUcan form of government, nor take 
 up arms against Texas. 
 
 "2. All convict soldiers were to be 
 taken entirelv out of Texas. 
 
The Alamo 
 
 "3. Those Mexican troops who wished 
 to leave the army, or remain in San 
 Antonio, were to be permitted to do so. 
 
 "4- AH public property was to belong 
 to the victors." 
 
 Quite an opposite spirit was shown in 
 the plans made public by Santa Anna 
 for conquering Texas: 
 
 " I. All who had taken part in the 
 rebellion were to be driven from the 
 province. 
 
 "2. All who were not rebels were to be 
 removed far into the interior. 
 
 "3. The best lands were to be given to 
 the Mexican officers and soldiers. 
 
 ' ' 4. No one from the United States was 
 to be allowed to settle in the province 
 under any circumstances. The Texans 
 were to pay all the expenses of the war. 
 Every foreigner who should bring arms 
 or military stores into Texas was to be 
 considered and treated as a pirate." 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 On February 23, 1836, General Santa 
 Anna came into San Antonio at the head 
 of his army of four thousand men. In- 
 side the Alamo, or Mission of 
 San Valero, were gathered one 
 hundred and forty-five Texans, 
 ready to give up their lives 
 rather than surrender to the 
 Mexican despot. 
 
 Commanding this gallant little 
 band was Colonel WiUiam Bar- 
 ret Travis, and with him were 
 "Davy" Crockett, Bowie, and 
 Bonham. To many the name 
 of Bowie suggests only a cer- 
 -tain kind of desirable knife, 
 whereas it should thrill them 
 with the example of a man who died 
 for the rights and the flag of his 
 country. Davy Crockett and his 'coon 
 song bring laughter to the lips of the 
 unknowing, but those who realize the 
 
The Alamo 
 
 sacrifice of his life for his principles think 
 of him with wet lashes. 
 
 Travis, the youthftil commander of the 
 fort, lies under the sod for whose glory 
 he fought, unheralded and unsung. Let 
 us scan the lists of the mighty dead and 
 where can we find names that stand ahead 
 of these? So long as there are people to 
 venerate immortal glory, these names wiU 
 live with the great hero-martyrs of his- 
 tory, for no man can do more than give 
 up his life for liberty and his country. 
 
 The story of the sacrifice can never be 
 told too often. Upon Santa Anna's de- 
 mand for the immediate surrender of the 
 little garrison defending the Alamo, the 
 mouth of a cannon sent back the answer, 
 and, almost before its ominous echoes had 
 died away, a blood-red flag was hoisted 
 from the tower of San Fernando Cathe- 
 dral, Santa Anna's headquarters. Its 
 meaning was "No quarter." 
 13 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 Stubbornly, in the face of its red folds, 
 the Texans fought for ten days and 
 nights, watching always, and not without 
 hope that reinforcements would come. 
 On the third of March, Colonel Travis 
 sent out an appeal to the convention in 
 session at Washington on the Brazos, 
 and it was the last favor that these brave 
 souls who faced death so unflinchingly 
 ever asked of man. In this appeal Travis 
 said that " the blood-red banners which 
 waved over the church at Bexar, and in 
 the camp above him, were tokens that 
 the war was one of vengeance against 
 rebels." 
 
 At the same time he wrote to a friend 
 in Washington County : 
 
 "Take care of my little boy. If the 
 country shoxold be saved I may make him 
 a splendid fortune, but if the country 
 should be lost, and I should perish, he 
 will have nothing but the proud recoUec- 
 14 
 
The Alamo 
 
 tion that he is the son of a man who died 
 for his country. " 
 
 The only reHef that came in response 
 was a force of thirty-two men from 
 Gonzales, brought back by Captain John 
 W. Smith. They managed to evade the 
 vigilance of the Mexican besiegers and 
 entered the fort in safety, but to their 
 ultimate destruction. While the men in- 
 side the beleaguered fort now numbered 
 less than two hundred, Santa Anna's 
 army had increased to six thousand — a 
 mighty host against a handful. 
 
 The end was drawing near. On the 
 sixth of March a death-like stillness fell 
 over the little town. The roar of cannon 
 was hushed, and Travis understood. He 
 called his little force together and spoke 
 to them: 
 
 "My Comrades: Stem necessity com- 
 pels me to improve these few moments, 
 while the enemy has ceased bombarding 
 15 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 and withdrawn to an unusual distance. 
 We are overwhelmed and our fate is 
 sealed. Within a few days, perhaps with- 
 in a few hours, we must be in eternity. I 
 have continually received the promise of 
 help, and have long deceived you by ex- 
 tending you this hope, from the fulness 
 of my heart instilling you with courage 
 and bravery, as it has been extended me 
 by the council at home. 
 
 "But they have evidently not been in- 
 formed of our perilous condition, or ere 
 this would have come to our assistance. 
 My last call on Colonel Fannin remains 
 unanswered and my messengers have not 
 returned. The probabilities are that his 
 command has fallen into the hands of 
 the enemy, or that our couriers have 
 been cut off and have not reached him. 
 
 "It is no longer a question of how we 
 may save our own lives, but how best to 
 prepare for death and serve our country. 
 
 i6 
 
The Alamo 
 
 If we surrender we will be shot without 
 taking the life of a single enemy. If 
 we try to make our escape through the 
 Mexican lines we will be butchered be- 
 fore we can despatch our adversaries. To 
 either of these I am opposed and ask you 
 to withstand every advance of the enemy. 
 And when they shall scale oiu" walls at 
 last and storm the fort, let us slay them 
 as they come, as they leap within slay 
 them, as they raise their weapons to slay 
 our 'companions, slay we all of them, 
 until our arms are powerless to lift our 
 swords in defence of ourselves, our com- 
 rades, and our country. 
 
 "Yet to every man I give permission 
 to surrender or escape. My desire and 
 decision is to remain in the fort and fight 
 as long as breath remains in my body. 
 But do as you think best, each of you, and 
 those who consent to remain until the 
 end will give me joy unspeakable. " 
 17 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 Travis then drew his sword and traced 
 from right to left of the file a line. Stand- 
 ing in front of the centre he said : 
 
 "I now want every man who is de- 
 termined to stay here and die with me 
 to come across that line. Who will be 
 the first? March!" 
 
 The first to respond was Tapley Hol- 
 land, who leaped the line at a botand, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "I am ready to die for my country! " 
 
 His example was instantly followed by 
 every man in the file, except one. His 
 name was Rose. Every sick man who 
 could walk arose and tottered across 
 the line. 
 
 Colonel Bowie, who could not leave his 
 bed, said: "Boys, I am not able to come 
 to you, but I wish that some of you would 
 be so kind as to move my cot over there." 
 Four men instantly ran to the cot and 
 lifted it over the line. Then every sick 
 
 l8 
 
The Alamo 
 
 man that could not walk made the same 
 request, and had his bunk moved in the 
 same way. 
 
 Colonel Fannin had started from Goliad 
 with three hundred men and four pieces 
 of artillery to help the men in the Alamo, 
 but owing to sickness of his troops, want 
 of food, and lack of teams, he was forced 
 to turn back. 
 
 As in the Revolution, there was but 
 one traitor in the Alamo. There was but 
 one who refused to sacrifice his life. He 
 waited on the outskirts of the town and 
 listened to the bombardment of the 
 fort tintil the following morning at sun- 
 rise, when it ceased entirely. The awful 
 silence that followed the cannonading 
 told that the Alamo had fallen. Since the 
 first faint streak of dawn had tinged the 
 eastern horizon, the comrades Rose had 
 deserted were dauntlessly meeting their 
 deaths. 
 
 19 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 Before nine o'clock the last gallant 
 defender of the Alamo had gone to his 
 reward, and as these men had fought, so 
 they died, with the word "liberty" on 
 their stiffening Ups. 
 
 A Mexican sergeant named Becerra, 
 thus graphically pictiires that end: 
 
 "There was an order to gather otir own 
 dead and wounded. It was a fearful sight. 
 Our Hfeless soldiers covered the groimd 
 surrounding the Alamo. They were 
 heaped inside the fortress. Blood and 
 brains covered the earth and the floors 
 and had spattered the walls. The ghastly 
 faces of our comrades met oiu- gaze, and 
 we removed them with despondent heaiis. 
 Our loss in front of the Alamo was repre- 
 sented at two thousand killed and more 
 than three hundred wotmded. The killed 
 were generally struck on the head; the 
 wounds were on the neck or shoulder, 
 seldom below that. 
 
The Alamo 
 
 "The firing of the besieged was fear- 
 fully precise. When a Texas rifle was 
 levelled on a Mexican he was considered 
 as good as dead. All this indicated the 
 dauntless bravery and cool self-possession 
 of the men who were engaged in a hope- 
 less conflict with an enemy numbering 
 more than twenty to one. 
 They inflicted on us a loss 
 ten times greater than 
 they sustained. The vic- 
 tory of the Alamo was 
 dearly bought. Indeed, 
 the price in the end was 
 well-nigh the ruin of 
 Mexico." 
 
 Santa Anna, the President of Mexico 
 had won a victory, but the final resiilt of 
 this victory was defeat for Mexico, and 
 left the "Lone Star of Texas" floating 
 proudly over an independent nation. 
 
 By order of Santa Anna a large 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 pile of wood was collected. The bodies 
 of the vanquished martyrs were heaped 
 upon this pile and burned. The flames 
 kindled by the bodies illumined the 
 heavens and vast stretches of prairie land, 
 curling blood-red up towards the blue of 
 the Texas sky — a prophetic warning of 
 coming conquests. 
 
 It was not in the records of justice that 
 men like the defenders of the Alamo 
 should meet such a death without ven- 
 geance following. And such vengeance 
 was speedy and complete. It came on' 
 the battle-field of San Jacinto, where the 
 troops of Santa Anna went down forever 
 before the fury of the Texans, and the 
 dictator himself was capttired while try- 
 ing to make his escape in the disguise of 
 a common soldier. His fine linen shirt 
 and jewelled studs betrayed his identity 
 to the men who captured him — not, how- 
 ever, as Santa Anna, but as some officer 
 
The Alamo 
 
 of high rank — and he was brought before 
 Houston, who lay wounded under a tree. 
 Though not generally recorded in his- 
 tory, the writer knows, from information 
 obtained from the sons of men who fought 
 at San Jacinto, that the only thing that 
 saved the life of the Mexican general 
 was the fact that he was a Mason, as was 
 General Houston. The night following 
 Santa Anna's capture, a guard, composed 
 entirely of members of the Masonic 
 fraternity, was placed over him, and 
 when a party of Texans surrounded the 
 tent and demanded that the prisoner be 
 delivered to them, that they might deal 
 with him in a way which they thought 
 he justly deserved, they were repiilsed at 
 the point of bayonets. 
 
 Some twenty years ago the State of 
 Texas bought the chapel of the Alamo 
 from the CathoHc Church, paying for it 
 
 23 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 twenty thousand dollars. During the 
 years following, the name Alamo had be- 
 come almost meaningless. Recently a 
 noble body of women, the Daughters of 
 the Republic of Texas, succeeded in in- 
 ducing the Legislature of the State to 
 purchase the adjoining property — ^the 
 grotind upon which the mission convent 
 was bioilt, and upon which now stands a 
 building used as a grocery store. This 
 it is their intention to demolish, and to 
 erect in its place a Texas Hall of Fame. 
 In this temple will be placed statues and 
 busts of the State's famous dead, and here 
 will also be preserved the records of the 
 dark and stormy days which made possi- 
 ble the glorious present. In addition to 
 this the society will foster the study of 
 Texan history and the movement for the 
 preservation of historic landmarks and 
 relics. 
 These Daughters of the Republic of 
 
 24 
 
The Alamo 
 
 Texas are the descendants of patriots 
 who have left them a heritage unequalled 
 m the annals of time, for fearlessness, 
 bravery, and courage. Could any society 
 have a more worthy, more beneficial 
 object, than that of keeping alive in a 
 country its patriotic enthusiasm, which, 
 after all, is the keynote to a nation's 
 greatness ? By the honoring of a glorious 
 past we strengthen our present, and by 
 the care of our eloquent but voiceless 
 monioments we are preparing a noble 
 inspiration for our future. 
 
 To the indefatigable and untiring en- 
 ergy of the Daughters of the Republic, 
 Texas owes the grateful debt of being 
 able to show in what manner she honors 
 and venerates her valiant and heroic 
 dead. But of more significance is the 
 preservation, as memorials for the inspira- 
 tion of future generations of Texans, of 
 the crumbling monuments and changing 
 25 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 battle-fields where died in the cause of 
 freedom the fathers of the State — ^men 
 who made the names of San Jacinto, 
 Goliad, and the Alamo immortal. 
 
 Progress, the essence of prosperity, is 
 the embodiment of Americanism. But 
 from the tourist's point of view progress 
 loses twenty-fold in competition with 
 sacred ruins and picturesque antiquity. 
 A gleam from the blurred lantern on one 
 of the Chili stands in the plaza counts for 
 more with them than a block of modem 
 buildings. And the fame of heroes, won 
 through the Alamo and the other mis- 
 sions, neglected as they are by passers-by 
 and weather-beaten by time, is what will 
 endure in the memory of all who have 
 seen or read of the old city of San Antonio. 
 
 This is a practical age we live in, yet 
 
 himian nature craves the heroic and the 
 
 ideal. There are times in the affairs of 
 
 every-day life when one must stop and 
 26 
 
The Alamo 
 
 ponder over the great and momentous 
 deeds of bygone times. They make one's 
 purpose in Hfe more tangible, more real. 
 That men before your time have done 
 what to-day seems impossible, gives you 
 a new inspiration, a greater strength of 
 will and purpose to fight according to 
 your ability the battle that life has 
 prepared for you. 
 
 How raany of you in San Antonio to- 
 day have really contemplated the old 
 Alamo building in the spirit of reminis- 
 cence, and learned the wonderful lesson 
 it teaches — that of self-sacrifice? Watch 
 it, if you have that privilege, in the 
 silence of eventide, when the glow of a 
 departing day throws its radiant color 
 like a brilliant crimson mantle about the 
 old ruin. How clearly the old battle scars 
 stand out, vivid and lurid in the stones, 
 red as the blood of the men who fought 
 and died there. Look at it in the busy 
 27 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 htirry of every-day life. Calm and ma- 
 jestic it stands amid the haggling of 
 trade and the trafficking of commerce. 
 
 Then go and stand before it on a night 
 when the moon throws a white halo over 
 the plaza ; when the lights of the city are 
 darkened, the winds of heaven hushed, 
 and the soft rippling of the distant river 
 alone is heard. How its sinister old face 
 frowns under the silver beams, as if it 
 were still fighting with the years the siege 
 that ended with the martyrdom of the 
 brave spirits whom once it shielded. 
 
 How eloquently it speaks to us in its 
 grimness and severity! Think of the 
 story it tells to every true Texan heart — 
 a story so sovil-stirring that the recollec- 
 tion of it should make us all lift otir heads 
 with pride, and thank God that we are 
 not only free-bom American citizens, but 
 that we are Texans as well. Search the 
 
 histories of the world and you will not 
 28 
 
The Alamo 
 
 find a deed to equal that of the men 
 who died within the Alamo that Texas 
 might be free, for ' ' Thermopylae had its 
 messenger of defeat — the Alamo had 
 none." 
 
 29 
 
n . 
 
 The Present 
 
 pONALD HARWOOD quitted the 
 carriage reluctantly as it stopped 
 in front of the chapel of the Alamo. He 
 looked into the chill sombreness of the 
 interior of the chiorch, shivered slightly, 
 then turned his gaze toward the sun-filled 
 plaza. He was loath to leave its warmth 
 and brightness. The swaying pakns in 
 the centre of the square, the lazy, slowly- 
 moving, cosmopolitan crowd that filled 
 the narrow, crooked streets, all spoke of 
 the manana country. 
 
 The old Spanish-American city of San 
 Antonio is very Southern in its habits, 
 Mexican in its local color, and tropical in 
 its climate. The aftermath of a foreign 
 dynasty, old and picturesque, still per- 
 30 
 
The Alamo 
 
 vades the atmosphere of the town. It 
 is a land of caressing sunshine and white 
 moonhght — a land where the air is ever 
 filled with the* seductive odor of a fresh, 
 blossoming flower. 
 
 Near by, in the shadow of the entrance 
 to the chapel, squatted the gaunt, brown 
 figure of a Mexican enveloped in a gay 
 zarape, watching with unseeing eyes the 
 hours drag wearily by, — an automaton, 
 awakened into life by the occasional dust- 
 ing, with a brush made of strips of paper, 
 the flies that congregated on the Mexican 
 dulcies, or candies, arranged with careful 
 
 on the little stand beside him. 
 
 Ronald Harwood had only just 
 arrivea m the Texas town, on his way 
 to California, in his private 
 car, he was congratulating 
 himself upon having chosen 
 this Southern route, because 
 it afforded him a few hours' 
 rest in the quaint, picturesque 
 31 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 old town of San Antonio. He had 
 chosen, as all strangers do, as the 
 first object of his sight-seeing, the Al- 
 amo, — "the Thermopylse' of America." 
 He took a deep breath in the ozone-filled 
 air, then stepped across the threshold of 
 the chapel and into the dense cold 
 shadows within. 
 
 You would like me to show you about 
 the church?" 
 
 It was a girl's voice that came from out 
 of the shadows, deliciously low and musi- 
 cal — the rich tone that characterizes the 
 voice of Southern women. Its owner was 
 standing, half-obscured, behind a glass- 
 covered case filled with souvenirs. ' 
 
 The young man started with an ex- 
 clamation of pleasure and surprise. What 
 he said was this: 
 
 "I thought I had left all the sunshine 
 outside." 
 
 The girl frowned slightly and blushed. 
 
 32 
 
The Alamo 
 
 She opened the case and took out a small, 
 paper-bound book, which she offered to 
 him. 
 
 "A full description of all the rooms is 
 given inside," she said. 
 
 He saw that he had offended her and 
 was sorry for it. 
 
 "If you don't mind, I would rather 
 have you show me about the chapel — the 
 light is poor — I am afraid I would find it 
 rather difficult to read. ' ' He spoke almost 
 timidly. 
 
 With seeming reluctance, the girl left 
 her place and moved to the centre of the 
 chapel. Harwood followed and stood be- 
 side her. 
 
 "This room," indicating with a grace- 
 ful gesture the interior, " is where the 
 last stand of the heroes of the Alamo was 
 made." She paused 
 and looked at him 
 a moment. "You v 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 know, of course, the history of the fall 
 of the Alamo?" she asked dubiously. 
 
 Harwood remembered in a vague, tin- 
 certain way of having read something 
 about it. He nodded assent. 
 
 "I asked you," the girl said, "because 
 so few strangers who come here seem to 
 know anything at all about our his- 
 tory — in fact, Texans even are pitifully 
 ignorant of it." She laughed a little 
 shamefacedly. 
 
 "I should not have said that; it does 
 not sound quite loyal, does it?" She 
 was growing more friendly, but she 
 paused again— his eyes were discon- 
 certing. 
 
 "I am afraid," Harwood admitted 
 frankly, "that I have forgotten about 
 it — you will have to refresh my memory." 
 Then he added quickly: "But you must 
 be tired through having to tell the story 
 to every one who comes here?" 
 
 34 
 
The Alamo 
 
 The girl's great eyes opened in horrified 
 surprise. 
 
 ' ' Tired telling the story of the greatest 
 sacrifice in the history of the whole 
 world — tired, and I a Texan!" 
 
 The pride with which she said that word 
 "Texan" was a revelation to Harwood. 
 He moved a step nearer to her. 
 
 "Please tell it to me; I should love 
 to hear it from you." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, then con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "You know that one hundred and for- 
 ty-five Texans held the Mission against 
 the attack of four thousand Mexicans?" 
 
 "I was not so sure of the number," 
 Harwood answered seriously. 
 
 ' ' I must read you the letter, the noblest 
 ever penned, that Travis, the commander 
 of the garrison, sent out from the doomed 
 fortress. There was only one other appeal 
 for aid from these men." The girl opened 
 
 35 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 the book she held in her hand and read 
 in a voice filled with fervid enthusiasm: 
 " ' Command ANCY of the Alamo, 
 '"Be JAR, Feby. 24th, 1836— 
 "To the People of Texas & all Americans 
 in the world, 
 " ' Fellow citizens & compatriots — I 
 am besieged, by a thousand or more of 
 the Mexicans under Santa Anna — I have 
 sustained a continued Bombardment & 
 cannonade for 24 hours & have not lost a 
 man — ^The enemy has demanded a sur- 
 render at discretion, otherwise, the garri- 
 son are to be put to the sword, if the fort 
 is taken — I have answered the demand 
 with a cannon shot, & our flag still waves 
 proudly from the walls — I shall never sur- 
 render or retreat. Then, I caU on you in the 
 name of Liberty, of patriotism, & every- 
 thing dear to the American character, 
 to come to our aid, with all despatch — 
 The enemy is receiving reinforcements 
 36 
 
The Alamo 
 
 daily & will no doubt increase to three 
 or four thousand in iour or five days. 
 If this call is neglected, I am deter- 
 mined to sustain myself as long as pos- 
 sible & die like a soldier who never 
 forgets what is due to his own honor & 
 that of his country — Victory or Death. 
 " ' Lt.Col. comdt 
 
 " ' P. S. The Lord is on our side— When 
 the enemy appeared in sight we had not 
 three bushels of com — We have since 
 found in deserted houses 80 or 90 bushels 
 & got into the walls 20 or 30 head of 
 Beeves — 
 
 '"Travis'" 
 
 The color had risen and flushed the 
 girl's cheeks. Her large brown eyes grew 
 bright in their excitement. 
 
 "Isn't that splendid?" 
 
 Her enthusiasm was infectious. Har- 
 wood began to tingle with it. 
 37 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 "The buUiest thing I ever heard of a 
 man's doing," he said, looking into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "It was here," she went on, "that 
 Travis called his men together and offered 
 them the chance of escape or permission to 
 stirrender, and told thera of his determina- 
 tion to stay in the fort and fight to the 
 end. He then took his sword and drew a 
 line with it across the dirt floor of the 
 chapel and called upon those who were 
 willing to die with him for the sake of their 
 country to step across. Colonel Bowie 
 — of course I don't have to tell you who 
 he was — asked that his cot be carried 
 across the line and placed by Travis's side. 
 Bowie was ill at the time. They all, ex- 
 cept one, followed Bowie. A man named 
 Rose hesitated, and finally said he would 
 take the chance of escaping, which he did. 
 But think of it — out of one hundred and 
 forty-five men, only one was afraid to die. 
 33 
 
The Alamo 
 
 "Inside the besieged fortress were the 
 small number of valiant Texans; outside 
 its walls were more than five thousand 
 Mexican troops, ready, eager, at the word 
 of command to annihilate the trapped 
 Texans. In order to make you understand 
 more clearly, I must read the official 
 orders governing the attack: 
 
 " 'Official Orders for Attack. 
 
 " ' The reserves will be composed of 
 the battalion of Sappers and Miners, and 
 the five companies of the Grenadiers 
 of the Matamoras, Jimenes and Aldamas 
 battalions of regulars, and of the Toluca 
 and San Luis battalions of volunteers. 
 
 " ' The reserve will be commanded by 
 the General-in-Chief.' 
 
 "This was the order given by the 
 President of Mexico, and commander of 
 her armies, to six thousand Mexicans, 
 the dlite of the Mexican army, who 
 had been besieging less than two hundred 
 
 39 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 Texans for thirteen days. It speaks for 
 itself. 
 
 " On March yth General Santa Anna 
 issued a 'Proclamation,' in which he 
 speaks of the immolation of the Tex- 
 ans as a matter of justice, and argues 
 that the 'Army of Operations' has been 
 marched into Texas for the performance 
 of such deeds. 
 
 "Ah, if I could only make you see and 
 feel as we Texans feel about that terrible 
 day, but I can't." The girl sighed — - 
 Harwood was entranced. 
 
 "Patiently the doomed Texans waited 
 — waited for the death that was inevita- 
 ble. It was at dawn that the attack com- 
 menced. Santa Anna's army swept down 
 on the fortress. Through the rain of shot 
 it crept closer, gaining steadily, until the 
 outer walls were battered down." 
 
 The girl paused an instant. 
 
 "It is terrible to think of that great 
 40 
 
The Alamo 
 
 army of Mexicans swooping down on the 
 handful of Americans inside the Mis- 
 sion grounds. The Texans fought with all 
 the fury of their just resentment and 
 the courage of their brave souls. When 
 the ammunition had been exhausted and 
 the cannon were no 
 longer available, guns 
 were used as clubs to 
 fell the dark-skinned 
 enemy. The Texans 
 desperately contest- 
 ed every inch of 
 ground until by the ' ', 
 overwhe 1 m- -^ 
 
 ing force of ft^— " 
 numbers they ^ 
 were forced 
 back into the 
 chapel, where the 
 last stand was 
 made. 
 
 V?^^ rfr"'--' 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 "It was on this hallowed spot that 
 the little band of Texans, sorely wounded 
 and with clothing torn to tatters by Mex- 
 ican bullets, stood their ground. Not 
 one inch did they give — it was fight to 
 the death, and death it was. After a hand- 
 to-hand conflict lasting two hours and a 
 half, the last surviving Texan sank to the 
 ground, shot to death by Mexican 
 bullets. 
 
 "Though the Mexicans shamefully out- 
 numbered the Americans, it took the 
 bravery of a Spartan to enter that chapel. 
 Mowed down like sheaves of wheat with 
 a scythe, the Mexicans fell before the 
 deadly fire of the Texans. The Mexicans 
 paid thirteen-fold for the life of every 
 Texan, and every Texan gave his life's 
 blood that his country should be freed of 
 Mexican tyranny. 
 
 "Oh! you do not wonder why we 
 
 Texans are so rightfully proud of these 
 42 
 
The Alamo 
 
 men who gave us freedom, these men 
 who died here, Travis, Bowie, Crock- 
 ett, Bonham and all the rest." 
 
 Harwood delighted in the quick anima- 
 tion and patriotic fire of this daughter of 
 the Lone Star State. 
 
 "No," he said, "I do not wonder and 
 can understand now why you are proud 
 of the Alamo. It is the finest thing I ever 
 heard." 
 
 The girl turned away her face and 
 Harwood thought the pink of her ear 
 beautiful. The story and the manner to 
 its telling thrilled him, as it thrills all who 
 listen to its recital. 
 
 ' ' It was n't as if Travis had been an old 
 man, he was only twenty-seven," said 
 the girl; "that was young to die, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 Harwood smiled. "I am glad now I 
 did n't die at twenty-seven." 
 
 Again the girl turned from him suddenly. 
 
 43 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 "If you will come this way I will show 
 you the room in which Bowie lay sick." 
 She led the way to a sm.all room^ to the 
 left of the entrance. 
 
 "During the siege he was suffering from 
 pneumonia and was nursed by a Mexican 
 woman. He was killed in this room over 
 here" — the girl walked to the room on 
 the opposite side of the chapel. ' ' This is 
 the Baptistery and it was here that the 
 women congregated and here they brought 
 Bowie, that he might die with the others. 
 On his sick-bed he fought until he was 
 shot to death by Mexican bidlets." 
 
 Harwood uttered an exclamation: 
 
 "And to think we have an inspiration 
 like this in our country for an epic and 
 the histories fail even to do it justice! " 
 
 "Davy Crockett fell outside in the 
 court-yard," the girl went on. "That old 
 building outside is soon to be cleared 
 away and a fitting surrounding given this 
 
 44 
 
The Alamo 
 
 chapel. The State has just recently pur- 
 chased the property. It was through the 
 efforts of patriotic women that it was 
 saved for historic purposes." 
 
 ' ' In whose care is this old church now ? ' ' 
 Harwood asked. 
 
 "There is an organization in Texas 
 known as the Daughters of 
 the Republic. Of course 
 you know the members of 
 this organization are the 
 descendants of the pioneer 
 Texans — of the patriots of 
 the State — the men who 
 left a heritage glorious and 
 vinequalled for fearlessness, 
 bravery, and courage." 
 
 ' ' You are one of them ? ' ' 
 asked Harwood. 
 
 "You should know that without ask- 
 ing," the girl replied, "for were I not a 
 Daughter of the RepubHc I should not be 
 
 45 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 the proper custodian of the Church, for 
 to whom else are the walls of these Texas 
 ruins so sacred, or the names of her heroic 
 dead so precious?" 
 
 "You make one envy these dead 
 heroes. Death would lose its terror to 
 have one's eulogy sung by you," the man 
 replied. 
 
 "Are these things for sale?" Harwood 
 asked, looking into the case. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "for the benefit 
 of the Alamo Fund." 
 
 When Harwood had finished his pur- 
 chasing the case was practically empty. 
 
 "Send them to the Southern Pacific 
 station," he said. "Harwood is the name, 
 Ronald Harwood, private car 'Vera.'" 
 
 "That name is very familiar," the girl 
 
 said, looking up after writing the address ; 
 
 ' ' why, you are the son of the president of 
 
 the road." 
 
 "Yes," Harwood answered, "I am." 
 46 
 
The Alamo 
 
 "You are just passing through?" the 
 girl asked. 
 
 "Yes, I leave to-night for California. 
 Would you mind telling me your name 
 I might want some more souvenirs." He 
 covered a smile and there was a twinkle 
 in the girl's eyes as she replied : 
 
 "Just address me as Custodian of the 
 Alamo." And she added: "I hope you 
 will find you want more souvenirs; it is 
 good for the Fund." 
 
 They both laughed. The girl looked at 
 her watch. 
 
 "I am sorry to turn you out, but I 
 close the chapel at twelve, to go home 
 for lunch." 
 
 "Oh! I am so sorry, it is nearly one 
 o'clock and I have kept you here all this 
 time. I really must apologize, but you 
 see you made the morning so interesting. 
 I forgot even time — ^will you forgive me ? " 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive — you made 
 
 47 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 the morning very profitable, so we are 
 even." 
 
 "Good-bye, Miss " 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 "Good-bye. I hope you wih like San 
 Antonio well enough to come again. We 
 who live here think it has a great charm." 
 
 "It has, Miss " 
 
 " Copely," the girl said, "if you insist.' 
 
 "I shall come again. Miss Copely." 
 
 For a moment — as long as he dared — 
 he held the small hand of the girl in his, 
 and when she drew it away he felt he had 
 never in all his life hated to give up any- 
 thing so much. As reluctantly as he had 
 entered the chapel, he left it. The face of 
 its fair custodian danced in the sxmlight 
 before his eyes and the story of the old 
 ruin as told by her thrilled him. 
 
 The sunlight had died away in the 
 
 west. A soft night wind crept up from 
 
 48 
 
The Alamo 
 
 the southern sea. The plaza lay in semi- 
 darkness. The gray walls of the old 
 Alamo frowned upon the dusk. 
 
 Again Harwood stood before th'e ruin, 
 irresolute, as before, but from a far 
 different cause. It was not the cold chill 
 from within that deterred him, but a 
 sudden beating of his heart that was well- 
 nigh suffocating him. 
 
 Finally, he entered and fotind Miss 
 Copely arranging her things to leave for 
 the night. She looked up, surprised, and 
 if the Ught had been better he would have 
 seen a deep flush of happiness spread over 
 the girl's face. 
 
 " You don't mean to say you want more 
 souvenirs so soon?" 
 
 It hurt him that she spoke so lightly. 
 
 "Will you pardon me if I speak very 
 
 plainly to you. Miss Copely?" His voice 
 
 was tense, passion-filled. "I came back 
 
 because I could not leave San Antonio 
 
 4 49 
 
The Custodian of 
 
 without seeing you again; because you 
 are the one woman I have seen who has 
 suddenly interested me above all else; 
 because — ^well, because I love you." 
 
 The stillness of the chapel was intense, 
 though the man's heart was beating 
 violently, and the man's words had 
 brought to the girl's heart a joy that she 
 had never even dreamed. 
 
 He was now close beside her. She could 
 hear his quick breathing and even in the 
 darkness she could feel his look like a 
 caress. 
 
 "Won't you say something to me," the 
 man persisted, "just a word? I am going 
 away to-night, but I will come back if 
 you ask me to — God knows I want to." 
 
 The girl spoke hardly above a whisper. 
 
 "What could I say?" 
 
 The man caught her hand in both of 
 his." 
 
 "Tell me you want me to come back," 
 50 
 
The Alamo 
 
 he pleaded. "Tell me that when I do 
 come back you will let me take you with 
 me. " 
 
 "But my position as custodian here?" 
 
 "Ah — if you only knew how much I 
 needed you. There are many who can 
 tell of the valor of these dead heroes, but 
 there is only one who can satisfy this 
 living being. Say you want me to come 
 for you. I shall never leave unless you 
 do." 
 
 The girl stood back from him, looking 
 at him long and earnestly. 
 
 ' ' You ask me this, knowing nothing of 
 me, who or what I am?" 
 
 Harwood stepped toward her quickly, 
 and took her in his arms. "I ask you this 
 because I love you." His voice sank 
 to a whisper. "What does the rest 
 matter^will you come with me, sweet- 
 heart?" 
 
 In the darkness of the chapel his eyes 
 51 
 
The Custodian of the Alamo 
 
 burned into hers, his warm breath fanned 
 her cheek. 
 
 "If you love me," he pleaded, "you 
 will come with me." 
 
 Closer she nestled in his arms, and with 
 her mouth against his she breathed the 
 words : 
 
 "Yes. I will come." 
 
 52 
 
SISTER GENEVIEVE 
 
SISTER GENEVIEVE 
 
 "T^HE river was quiet and peaceful in 
 this lonely spot, and the large trees 
 on either side drooped down to the water's 
 edge, casting long, dark shadows in the 
 slowly moving current. 
 
 The place seemed shut off from the 
 world, and so it was, for the drowsy little 
 stream flowed tranquilly along the lower 
 edge of the large grounds that belonged 
 to the Convent of the Sacred Heart. 
 
 It was a very old convent, and its 
 crumbling walls sheltered good, pure 
 women who had renounced the vanities 
 of the world, and consecrated their lives 
 to God. 
 
 In the waning afternoon of one of the 
 early autumn daj^s, when the light was 
 
 55 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 beginning to fade a little in the clear sky, 
 and the young trees and shrubs wore an 
 aspect of lifelessness, a nun was resting 
 in this secluded place. A piece of half- 
 finished embroidery was lying in her lap, 
 her eyes were closed, and her hand was 
 resting wearily against the trunk of a 
 large tree back of the bench on which she 
 was sitting. The upturned face in its 
 whiteness had the semblance of marble, 
 and the hnes in it were those of suffering 
 rather than age, for Sister Genevieve was 
 young, and had worn 
 the black veil of her 
 order but a short 
 time. 
 
 Most of her school 
 days had been passed 
 under the guidance of 
 these good Sisters, and 
 when she came back 
 to them to take up 
 56 
 
 ":^-. 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 their life the Mother Superior looked 
 incredtilously at the beautiful girl, who 
 was giving up so much to begin an 
 existence of unabating sacrifice and 
 duty. 
 
 She had been in retreat only a few 
 weeks when the roses faded from her 
 cheeks, leaving them almost transparent 
 in their clear whiteness, and certain lines 
 about the face had greatly saddened. 
 
 The good Mother was fearful lest her 
 favorite young charge had somewhat re- 
 pented of her hasty decision to become a 
 bride of the Church, and in her talks with 
 the novice had hinted at such possibilities, 
 but the latter had assured her that it 
 was not so, and the Mother then thought 
 the change must come from too much 
 prayer and meditation. The young novice 
 was always at her beads. When she had 
 at last taken her vows, and become a 
 cloistered nun, there was no one more 
 
 57 
 
Sister Geneveive 
 
 beloved than the sweet, gentle Sister 
 Genevieve. 
 
 There was very little resemblance left 
 in this silent figure to the bright, beautiful 
 girl who two years before had closed the 
 door of the world, with its pleasures and 
 pains, and had come to finish her life in 
 the service of God. As the days and 
 months went by Sister Genevieve's pale- 
 ness became more and more noticeable, 
 until she seemed to be fading away, and 
 the nuns prayed more fervently for the 
 restoration of this sweet Sister. A special 
 dispensation had excused her from the 
 more rigid fasts. Much of her work had 
 been taken from her, and she was allowed 
 to spend a great part of her time in the 
 open air. Only Sister Genevieve herself 
 knew what it was that was eating her life 
 away. 
 
 How could any one else know or realize 
 the depth of the sorrow that filled her 
 
 5S 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 whole being. She had fought against it 
 with all the strength of her will, until 
 at last it had proved too strong for her 
 and dominated her whole existence. 
 
 Night after night, in her cold, cheerless 
 little room, she would pace the floor in an 
 agony of restless torture, sometimes fling- 
 ing herself on her knees in the very aban- 
 donment of grief and calling to God to 
 let her die. He must take her — she could 
 not bear it much longer — ^human beings 
 could not suffer long as she was suffering. 
 Then a feeling of rebellion would take 
 possession of her, and in her bitter an- 
 guish she would cry out against her fate. 
 God had given her life, and then had 
 cheated her of it. He had let her see what 
 happiness could be, but in the tasting of 
 its first joys He had made her renounce 
 it forever. 
 
 It was at such times as these that she 
 would force her mind to seek prayer, but, 
 
 59 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 fight even as she would with all the 
 strength of her young being to think only 
 of the worship of her God, the prayer was 
 but of her lips, and she shuddered, afraid 
 and fearfully, for she knew that the image 
 of God's crucified Son was not in her 
 heart. 
 
 Fervently, miserably, pitifully, she 
 wrestled with her tortured self. 
 
 If He had only made her weak, like 
 some women, she might have been en- 
 joying that happiness now; but because 
 she had the strength to resist, to tear 
 herself away in time, she must be made 
 to suffer like this. 
 
 Where was the justice of 
 it? 
 
 Ah, if she could live over 
 again that mad moment, 
 would she do as she had done 
 then — ^wotild she send him 
 from her, not because she 
 
 60 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 was afraid to face whatever sorrow the 
 futtire might have held for them both, 
 but because of a noble, trusting woman, 
 who had the right to love where she 
 had not ? She might have placed her hand 
 in his and defied the world, but for the 
 face of the other woman. 
 
 No — she could not have endured that, 
 and it was at such a thought as this that 
 a peace would steal over her and her 
 prayers would end in holier things. 
 
 But sometimes a strong feeling would 
 possess her that she must see him, must 
 find him and tell him how useless it was 
 to try and make herself believe that she 
 could live without him. They would for- 
 get everything but each other, they would 
 live in and for the love which had come 
 to them. He was her very life and soul, 
 and for his kisses and the warmth of his 
 arms she would renounce the heaven that 
 she had become a nun to gain. 
 
 6i 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 Then, starting up, afraid lest these 
 thoughts should shape themselves into 
 words, she would press her hot, feverish 
 hands against her lips and hold them there 
 to keep back the sacrilegious sounds ; and, 
 creeping back into her bed, she would lie 
 shivering through the long, dreary hoitrs 
 of the night, until the sound of the rising 
 bell would make her realize there was 
 another long day to live through, with 
 nothing to hope for, or pray for, but 
 death. 
 
 Sometimes, in the long hours of solitude 
 that she was allowed to spend by the 
 river, she would give rein to her thoughts, 
 and wonder what she would do if he came 
 to her as he said he wotild. 
 
 His last words had been: "A day may 
 come when I can go to you and ask you to 
 be my wife. If that day ever comes, I 
 swear solemnly that I will seek you and 
 find you." 
 
 62 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 Suppose that the day should come, 
 would she be able to resist again? would 
 she have the strength to send him from 
 
 her a second time, and live up to the vows 
 she had made to the Church? 
 
 So absorbed was she in these thoughts 
 63 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 that she did not hear the sound of oars 
 on the water break through the stillness, 
 and it was only when a boat grated on the 
 edge of the bank near her that she looked 
 up. With a cry of alarm Sister Gene- 
 vieve sprang to her feet, and for a mo- 
 ment stood like a statue, white and still. 
 Her thoughts had taken a living form, 
 and before her stood, not an apparition, 
 as she first thought, but the man she 
 loved and for whom she had buried herself 
 from the world, and for whose sake her 
 very life-blood seemed to be slowly leav- 
 ing her. 
 
 "Jean, Jean! Have you no word for 
 me?" He scarcely voiced the question, 
 but held out his arms imploringly. 
 
 Sister Genevieve's frail body trembled 
 like a leaf in the wind. 
 
 "God's mother, help me! " 
 The words were breathed faintly, in- 
 articulately. She caught at her throat. 
 64 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 The color of the trees and the Hght of 
 the sky seemed to fade suddenly and a 
 mist swam before her eyes. With a great 
 efEort she shrank from his outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 ' ' No, no,— God — no ! It is too late. By 
 the oath of eternal salvation I have given 
 my soul and body to Him." 
 
 Her black-robed figure was drawn to 
 its full height, her head was thrown back, 
 her eyes looked up into the vaulted blue, 
 and her bared arm, like^ a white shaft, 
 pointed upwards. A gray look of death 
 swept over the man's features; he stood 
 irresolute — then sprang forward and 
 crushed her to him, murmuring her name, 
 the name she had not heard since her 
 novitiate. 
 
 "Jean, Jean, my love, my jean!" was 
 all that the man could force his lips to 
 say. He could not let her escape him now. 
 
 Sister Genevieve's frail, shaking form 
 
 63 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 lay limp in his strong arms. "Thank 
 God," he whispered close to her ear, 
 "you are in my arms at last. So I 
 shall hold you, my darling, until death. 
 There can be no sin in yotir coming to me, 
 my beloved, for as God made us, it was 
 willed that we should belong to one an- 
 other. Why make a prisoner of your body 
 when your soul is mine?" "Jean, my 
 love, speak to me. What else matters?" 
 
 The voice, passion-filled, roused the 
 woman, though the sense of the words 
 were lost. 
 
 Very gently he drew her back to her 
 seat. Her knees trembled so that she 
 sank heavily upon it. Instinctively her 
 hand sought her beads, and she pressed 
 the cross to her cold Hps, but no so\md 
 came from them. 
 
 The man was scanning eagerly every 
 feature of her pale face. 
 
 "How white you are, Jean, how white, 
 
 66 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 my love, but your eyes, — how beautiful, 
 how gloriously beautiful! Your hair is 
 hidden from me. It is a sacrilege it should 
 be so. To hide its gold is like shutting out 
 the rays of God's sunshine." 
 
 It was then he saw the cross, and with 
 a low inarticulate sound he snatched 
 God's image from her sobbing mouth. 
 
 "Give me your lips, Jean. You shall 
 give them to me — they are all I want, 
 Jean, your lips, for the rest of life's short 
 hour. After that, my love— after that — 
 you and they and all things go back to 
 God again." Holding her to him, he 
 pressed his lips passionately to hers. 
 
 In their kiss xhe world was forgotten — 
 they had given themselves to each other 
 for eternity. 
 
 The man was the first to speak: 
 
 "My wife is dead, and I have sought 
 you out and found you as I swore I would." 
 
 Then followed such wild, reckless words 
 67 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 — ^words that she, a cloistered nun, shoiold 
 never have listened to; and yet she was 
 powerless to move — she was as one dazed, 
 without even the strength to speak. 
 
 The man was telling her of his hf e since 
 the time they had discovered their love 
 for each other — the bitterness of part- 
 ing when they had the courage to say 
 good-bye. It was so pitiful, the sioffering 
 he had gone through since then, that 
 in listening to the recital of it she forgot 
 her own — ^forgot her vows — forgot the 
 habit she was wearing, the habit of one 
 of God's children — forgot everj'thing but 
 the man beside her, the man she had 
 loved, and — God help her — ^loved still. 
 She placed her hand tenderly on his : 
 
 "Nothing can take you from me now," 
 the man said, bending over the hand that 
 lay upon his own. 
 
 "No," said the nun, speaking for the 
 first time. Her voice was tender to the 
 
 68 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 verge of tears. ' ' It could not have gone 
 on like this much longer. I did not know 
 what my love was when I thought I could 
 forget it by burying myself here. I did 
 not know its strength or depth. My soul 
 has starved with hunger for you ever since 
 I closed those doors behind me. I thought 
 I could shut you out. I wanted to be as 
 good and pure as the saints I had read 
 
 m%^ 
 
 about. 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 " But I am a woman, with all a woman's 
 power of loving and longing to be loved 
 in return. I thought by starving my 
 soul I could in time crush out the love 
 for you that filled it — I did not under- 
 stand." 
 
 She had taken his face between her 
 hands, and was looking deep into his 
 eyes, reading there all the love that would 
 be hers. The first flush of color that had 
 been in Sister Genevieve's pale cheeks 
 rested there now. 
 
 When the evening bell pealed out 
 
 through the convent stillness, calling the 
 
 nuns to prayer, a boat glided out from 
 
 among the willows, and the man in it 
 
 stopped rowing for a moment to watch 
 
 the slowly retreating figiire on the bank. 
 
 The nun turned and looked back. There 
 
 was no sign or motion on her part, only 
 
 a look from the eyes. Then the trees 
 
 closed around her and hid her from 
 70 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 sight, and the man pulled quickly down 
 the stream. 
 
 Sister Genevieve drew the veil down 
 over her face, as if to hide its look of 
 guilty happiness, and hastened toward 
 the convent. 
 
 It was the vesper hour, and the chant- 
 ing nuns, like a procession of shadowy 
 ghosts, moved noiselessly into the chill 
 of the silent, dimly lighted chapel. 
 
 When Sister Genevieve joined them, 
 no one would have thought that this 
 devout figure, with bowed head, was the 
 one who but the moment before had 
 looked into the eyes of the man she 
 loved. The good Sisters did not know 
 that the sweet-faced, saintly nun they 
 loved had that day given herself back to 
 the world, and would henceforth be act- 
 ing a lie, which by them could not 
 be forgiven but by years of bitter 
 atonement. 
 
 71 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 While the low voice of the priest 
 monotonously intoned the service the 
 nuns bowed low over their clasped hands, 
 and they seemed lost in prayer — all but 
 one. She was looking straight before her 
 with an expression not of holy things, 
 but as if her gaze had penetrated the 
 thick walls and rested on the world out- 
 side. Sister Genevieve's color had come 
 back to her cheeks, and her eyes had re- 
 gained some of their old brilliancy, but 
 there was an unrest in her soul which kept 
 her in continual torment. Her vows and 
 her duty to her church and the earthly 
 love in her heart were at constant con- 
 flict. Since yesterday she had hved as one 
 in a dream. She could think of nothing 
 but the words: 
 
 "I have sought you out and found you, 
 as I swore I would." 
 
 The voice of the priest and the solemn 
 service recalled her wandering thoughts. 
 
 72 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 She looked eagerly around at the still 
 kneeling figures, and her eyes finally 
 rested on the Mother Superior. They 
 
 ■i;?«r-') 
 
 moistened, and a tear stole down her 
 cheek and fell on the white guimpe. It 
 was the last time Sister Genevieve would 
 ever pray with them, the last time 
 she would ever see any of them, and 
 her heart throbbed with a bitter pain 
 when she thought of how these nuns 
 
 73 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 would feel toward her when they knew 
 what she had done. They had been kind 
 to her and she loved them. But they 
 must pity her when they knew her story, 
 and she had left a letter for the Mother 
 Superior telling her everything. Sister 
 Genevieve bowed her head in a long 
 prayer for forgiveness. Her very soul 
 seemed shaken with the fervor of the 
 appeal. 
 
 "I could not give him up this time. I 
 had not the strength. God forgive me." 
 
 The words echoed through the silent 
 chapel, and Sister Genevieve started up 
 trembling to find herself alone in the 
 dark, silent House of God. So absorbed 
 had she been in the last supplication that 
 she had not seen the imas leave the 
 chapel. 
 
 She hurried out into the night. For a 
 moment she stood looking at the old 
 building; then, with a silent good-bye to 
 
 74 
 
Sister Genevieve 
 
 the Sisters, turned and walked qiuckly to 
 the river. A man's figure stood in the 
 deep shadow on the bank. At sight of 
 her he rushed forward with extended 
 arms, but she stopped him with a gesture 
 of appeal. 
 
 "Jean," he cried, "do you not come 
 to me freely!" 
 
 The woman moved into his arms. 
 
 "Freely I come to you, my beloved," 
 she whispered, "for I have just stolen 
 my soul from God to give it to you." 
 
 Folding a large cloak about her the 
 man led her to the boat. Stepping in 
 after her, they were soon out in the 
 stream. 
 
 Silently Sister Genevieve unfastened 
 the beads from her girdle, and, holding 
 them for a moment, let them slip slowly 
 into the cold, still water. 
 
 75 
 
JUANA OF THE MISSION DE 
 LA CONCEPCION 
 
JUANA OF THE MISSION 
 DE LA CONCEPCION' 
 
 OVER a century and a half ago, a 
 handful of pioneer Franciscan 
 monks entered into the wilderness of the 
 new-found world. They marked their 
 pathway with great edifices of substantial 
 white stone reared with infinite toil and 
 labor, interrupted not only by every 
 mechanical difficulty and material want, 
 but quite as frequently by the arrows of 
 unseen bows or warning booms of alarm 
 
 bells. 
 
 The mason who builds with trowel in 
 one hand and sword in the other builds 
 strongly. The ecclesiastical tendency of 
 the makers ot these missions was not to 
 
 'Established 1731. 
 79 
 
Juana of the 
 
 be checked by mere bodily danger, and 
 the portals and windows of most of these 
 churches are, even in their decav, among 
 
 the most interestmg specimens of Spanish 
 
 ornamentation, rich carving, and at one 
 
 time brilliant coloring that exist to-day. 
 
 Vineyards, fruit orchards, and gardens 
 
 gradually enclosed their walls. These 
 
 were watered by the winding stream 
 80 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 which always determined the site of such 
 settlements. One or more belfry towers 
 capped each of these consecrated strong- 
 holds. In that country of undulating 
 levels and unfathomable silences the ex- 
 cursive monk would have indeed had to 
 stray far not to hear the strokes of the 
 bell bidding him to his angelus. 
 
 In these churches these godly men 
 preached their faith. By sheer force of 
 will, strenuous efforts, and determined 
 courage exerted in behalf of their religion, 
 they forced the Indian to accept and 
 kneel to the Christian God instead of the 
 great Manitou. 
 
 The pious fathers who came in the 
 name of the cross had no desire for greed 
 or personal aggrandizement. Their sacri- 
 fice was one made in the name of the 
 Saviour of mankind, to instruct and en- 
 lighten the unknowing and unseeing. 
 These mission citadels became the seats 
 
Juana of the 
 
 of power in New Spain. Through their 
 dusky corridors these long-robed silent 
 rulers walked. In their hands they carried 
 a breviary in lieu of a sceptre. In the 
 cloisters filled with clinging vines and 
 fragrant roses they said their beads. 
 
 And the pathos of it all is, that these 
 gray-robed friars passed away long before 
 the wonderful seeds of their tintiring 
 labors became fruitful. To-day many of 
 their bones are rotting under the soil first 
 tilled by their patient hands, and the 
 stones and mortar of the edifices they so 
 miraculously put together on the wilds 
 of a lonely prairie are crumbling into ruin 
 and decay. The exquisitely^ rich and deli- 
 cate renaissance decorations are worn 
 away by the storms of years, and headless 
 figures of weather-beaten saints and 
 virgins still repose in their ornamental 
 niches. 
 
 Savage - looking cactus bushes and 
 82 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 feathery ferns grow in confusion on the 
 summits of the decaying walls, and from 
 out the crevices of the disjointed stones 
 lizards crawl to bask in the luxurious 
 warmth of the southern sun. The large 
 entrances once 
 guarded by mas- 
 sive cedar doors, 
 
 ' beautiful with in- 
 tricately carved 
 panels, are now 
 open archways, 
 through which the 
 wind sighs sadly 
 and deeply, like 
 
 the moan of barefoot friars whose 
 ghostly figures are doomed to linger on 
 at the old ruins, praying and weeping 
 over their lost glories. 
 
 To-day these Missions stand silent and 
 deserted, their gray antiquity clothed with 
 an atmosphere of fascinating traditions 
 83 
 
Juana of the 
 
 and thrilling legends. Their crumbling^ 
 moss-covered stones are all we have left 
 to remind us of the past, veiling with the 
 curtain of obscurity the secrets guarded 
 so sacredly by the scarred and battered 
 walls of these voiceless monuments, which 
 even in their ruins and decay awe us to 
 silence and wonder by their magnificence. 
 
 II 
 
 I tied my horse to the rude wooden 
 fence enclosing the old Mission and 
 passed through the gate into the neg- 
 lected, unkempt garden. Everywhere was 
 silence — solitude. 
 
 It was an afternoon in the late autumn. 
 The air was soft and balmy and filled with 
 a bright caressing sunshine, which fell 
 full against the f agade of the old Francis- 
 can church. 
 
 The twin towers of the gray old edifice 
 84 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 were sharply outlined against the deep, 
 clear blue of the Texas sky. While efforts 
 at restoration had seamed its sombre gray 
 front, and crumbling comers had been 
 replaced, yet the same mantle of antiq- 
 uity that clothed all these old church 
 strongholds clings to this one. Cold, 
 sullen, forbidding it confronted me, re- 
 sentful perhaps that its glory had de- 
 parted, but proud in the knowledge that 
 its stone walls stand a fitting monument 
 to the bravery, perseverance, and Chris- 
 tian valor of its founders. 
 
 One of the low wooden doors leading 
 into the chapel stood half open. I entered 
 the dim, chill house of worship. Its at- 
 mosphere breathed of the dead years. 
 To-day there were no white-robed acolytes 
 to swing censers of btiming incense at the 
 foot of the altar. Its whitewashed walls 
 rose tmbroken to the curved roof. To 
 the west were some windows and through 
 85 
 
Juana of the 
 
 these the golden light of the sun-filled 
 afternoon penetrated faintly. An occa- 
 sional unframed picture of a saint stared 
 with vacant eyes out of the canvasses. 
 
 A baptismal font of elaborate work- 
 manship caught the eye, while the mind 
 harked back to the time when its waters 
 bestowed the sacrament of holy Church 
 upon the ofEspring of the savages of the 
 wilderness. 
 
 In a comer was a confessional where 
 once hidden priests listened to the 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 whispered tale of sin, and comforted the 
 penitents with the consolation of for- 
 giveness. 
 
 The choir loft swung above the en- 
 trance — its purpose gone. No strain of 
 Latin anthem intoned by gray-robed 
 friars filled the gloom of the vaulted in- 
 terior. Some tawdry artificial flowers 
 adorned the altar, while over it hung a 
 plain wooden crucifix. 
 
 vSeeing an open doorway to the right 
 of the altar I passed through this and into 
 a room once used as a sacristy. Its ap- 
 pearance was more desolate and bare than 
 the chapel. A door in this room led out 
 into an open court or patio, partly sur- 
 rounded by arches, evidently the cloisters 
 where were formerly the cells of the 
 padres. To the left some crumbling 
 stone steps circled upwards in the thick- 
 ness of the rocks, to what at one time 
 may have been a tower. 
 87 
 
Juana of the 
 
 I climbed these carefully, very care- 
 fully, fearful lest the uncertain footing 
 might suddenly precipitate me in the 
 debris of loose stones and cactus bushes 
 below. 
 
 Following the curve of the steps I came 
 out upon a fiat roofing of stone, and found 
 myself face to face with a girl wonder- 
 fully beautiful. Her eyes were lustrous — 
 black, filled with a wild unrest — and I 
 shivered as I saw the look of madness in 
 their depths. She ignored my start of 
 surprise and stood silent and defiant be- 
 fore me. There was almost a daring in- 
 solence in the girl's attitude. Her figure 
 was willowy, slender, and her long night- 
 colored hair fell dishevelled about her 
 face. 
 
 After watching me for the space of a 
 few seconds with the suspicious cunning 
 of her kind, she drew a long, shivering 
 breath. Her hands clinched her throat 
 
 88 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 in despair; she sank to her knees on the 
 hard stones, and throwing out her arms 
 gave vent to a low heart-breaking wail- 
 ing. Her apparent obliviousness to my 
 presence, and a certain fascination, made 
 me linger even against my will. 
 
 Suddenly the demented creature threw 
 her body violently forward until her fore- 
 head touched the rough stones. In a wild 
 paroxysm of passion she kissed over and 
 over again the hard stone roof. When she 
 raised her head I saw a dark stain where 
 her lips had pressed. It looked the color 
 of blood. I shivered involuntarily at the 
 thought suggested by the deep red spot, 
 and I gently retraced my steps down the 
 steps, not daring or wishing to intrude 
 longer on the unhappy girl. 
 
 "The Senor has seen Juana?" Out of 
 the shadows came the low voice. 
 
 I was startled. The meagre, emaciated 
 
 form of an old Mexican woman stood 
 89 
 
Juana of the 
 
 in the pathway. She was brown and 
 withered and looked as ancient as a 
 fragment of the old ruin. A pair of keen 
 eyes were looking into mine. 
 
 "You speak English?" I said, my tone 
 expressing sxirprise. 
 
 ' ' Why not, Senor ? ' ' replied the woman, 
 as she drew her rusty black shawl closer 
 about her head and shoulders. "I am paid 
 to tell to strangers the history of the 
 church." 
 
 "You are the custo- 
 dian, then?" 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 "You should have 
 
 let me know when you 
 
 came." She cast a 
 
 glance up at the tower. 
 
 j(j "I never let strangers 
 
 ' up there. ' ' She pointed 
 
 with her bony finger 
 
 toward the steps. 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 "Juana is always there. She was a 
 good girl Juana — ^but she loved, and when 
 a woman loves it is always like that. Did 
 the Senor see the blood?" 
 
 She crossed herself as she asked the 
 question. In the uncertain gloom her 
 face went gray. 
 
 For the space of a second her lips 
 moved silently. 
 
 Yes, I had seen the spot. It was, 
 then, as I had surmised, blood. Silence 
 fell between us for a raoment. 
 
 The old woman turned to me very 
 slowly. 
 
 "The Senor would like to see the rest 
 of the Mission?" 
 
 My zest for an inspection of the old ruin 
 and a history of its past had consider- 
 ably cooled. The tragedy of the present 
 and the wild, haunting eyes of the mad 
 girl absorbed me unpleasantly. Th§ 
 old woman had noticed my abstraction. 
 91 
 
Juana of the 
 
 "The Sefior is wondering about Juana 
 — is it not so?" Her cracked voice was 
 hard and without emotion. 
 
 "She is crazy, Senor, that is all. She 
 does no harm." 
 
 I looked from the old woman out across 
 the shallow valley. Southward the fields 
 sloped to the edge of great pecan and 
 Cottonwood trees skirting the river. It 
 seemed to have become suddenly very 
 still — oppressively so — ^you could have 
 fancied yoiirself in a place of the dead. 
 An utter sense of loneliness crept over 
 me. Involtintarily I turned to the 
 woman. 
 
 "But the girl is so yoimg — so very 
 young. She has the look almost of a 
 child." 
 
 The wrinkled face of the old woman 
 
 remained impassive. 
 
 . "She is young, Senor, it is true, but 
 
 not too young to have loved." Her eyes 
 92 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 sought mine and I thought I detected a 
 flash of quick animation. "Juana is an 
 Indian. With us one's loves and one's 
 passions come like the fire of the sun on a 
 still stmamer day." 
 
 "Is love then the cause of her mis- 
 fortune?" I asked. 
 
 "God and the Virgin know that it is. 
 Did I not tell the Sefior that before?" 
 The old woman crossed herself. She did 
 not speak again for some time and I 
 thought she was quite lost in the j)ast. 
 I did not disturb her nor question her. 
 I did not wish to seem curious about the 
 poor girl's tmhappy condition. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The shadows lengthened about the 
 old ruin. A great quiet cloaked the 
 place. It seemed wrapped in an at- 
 mosphere of loneliness, of sadness, of 
 cold, sterile lifelessness. 
 
 93 
 
Juana of the 
 
 Varying shades of yellow and brown 
 tinged the landscape; even the last stalk 
 of corn standing among its fallen com- 
 panions had seared and withered. 
 
 A few field larks flitted here and there 
 among the fallen debris. 
 
 The wind had begun to blow up cold. 
 
 With intense vigor I drank into my 
 lungs its fresh, vivifying ozone. I had no 
 inclination for the morbid feeling which 
 had taken possession of me. 
 
 The old woman at my side felt its 
 sharpness and shivered as she drew her 
 shawl closer about her head and shoulders. 
 
 Her eyes were dry and bright, her 
 face drawn, expressionless as a granite 
 mask. 
 
 She was indeed a figure who in age and 
 decay was a fitting guardian for the an- 
 cient citadel where on every side were the 
 vanishing traces of a splendor long since 
 forgotten. And the girl on the roof! 
 
 94 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 Beneath the tumbhng towers these two, 
 the demented creature and the aged 
 Mexican, seemed to embody the stillness 
 of the dead. 
 
 IV 
 
 The toneless voice of the Mexican 
 woman took up the story again. 
 
 "Perhaps I should not keep Juana 
 here. They tell me there 
 are places where they care 
 for such, but she has been 
 here since she was a baby 
 and she is harmless — quite 
 harmless. It is her eyes 
 that frighten people. Her 
 eyes have looked like that 
 ever since the morning 
 when she found him dead 
 up there." 
 
 " Found who dead ? " I 
 
Juana of the 
 
 could not help but ask the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Why, Andres, of course." The words 
 were spoken almost impatiently. It was 
 as if the old woman resented my lack of 
 knowledge of the tragedy. 
 
 "She found him there, you say?" I 
 wanted her to continue. 
 
 "Yes, but she was not the first to find 
 him. Some strangers like yourself ; a lady 
 and her husband had come to visit the 
 Mission. They had gone up on the roof 
 to see the view. It was allowed them. 
 Perhaps you, Sefior, noticed that the 
 view is fine?" 
 
 I nodded my head. The woman con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "I stood here waiting for them just 
 
 as I have for you to-day. I heard a 
 
 cry. I had started up the steps, but 
 
 I could not move quickly, and I met 
 
 the Sefior and the lady. His arm was 
 96 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 about her and she was white Hke 
 death." 
 
 "There is a man killed up there," he 
 said. 
 
 "I went up to see for myself. Mother 
 of God! I won't forget the sight. There he 
 was, stretched out on his face. I could see 
 the blood around him on the stones. His 
 knife was near him. Afterwards when 
 they pickedy^him up they found a flower 
 in his hand-^said it came off the dress 
 the fair-haired woman had worn at the 
 dance. Men sometimes go mad like that 
 for love. And they never found any one 
 to take Andres's place with the musi- 
 cians. The Americans, it seemed, were 
 pleased with his playing." Again there 
 was a long pause. 
 
 " You are from the cold land, Senor ? " 
 
 The sad story of Juana had passed 
 quickly from her mind. Not so with me. 
 I ignored her question. 
 
 97 
 
Juana of the 
 
 "And the fair-haired woman was — 
 whom did you say?" 
 
 "Mother of God! how do I know who 
 she was — she was some stranger hke your- 
 self. She came to the dances where 
 Andres played, and he like a fool loved 
 her." 
 
 I had angered her. My story would be 
 lost. But I had not yet learned about 
 Juana. 
 
 "And the girl up there" — I motioned 
 i with my hand toward 
 
 the steps — "she loved 
 this Andres ? He was 
 her sweetheart?" 
 
 I ventured the ques- 
 tion hoping to get at 
 the girl's story. 
 
 " Her sweetheart — 
 Mother of God! Why, 
 Andres was her hus- 
 band!" 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 After some moments I felt her hand 
 touch my sleeve. 
 
 "With your permission, Senor, I will 
 show you what is left of the old wall. 
 My duty is to talk of these things." 
 
 I looked at her wrinkled brown skin 
 and bent body and thought silently — 
 discreetly. Yes, she was right — her duty 
 was to talk of the past, as befitted her 
 age. The tragedy of to-day left her as 
 unmoved to its horror as the romances 
 and past grandeur of the old stone ruin 
 she was guarding failed to stir her imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 I did not move, but looked again across 
 the undulating fields. I must have shiv- 
 ered slightly. 
 
 "It is better that we move out into the 
 sunshine. It is too cold here, perhaps, for 
 the Senor." She drew me forward. 
 
 "The old wall is just over here, Senor, 
 if you will follow." 
 
 99 
 
Juana of the 
 
 I took out some loose change from 
 my pocket. 
 
 "I am afraid I shall not have time 
 to-day." I tried to speak reassuringly. 
 The money clinked in the hollow of her 
 sunken palm. A look of satisfaction 
 crossed her face as she noted the amount. 
 
 "Many thanks. The Sefior will come 
 again? He has seen nothing and there is 
 much of interest, so they who visit here 
 say." 
 
 I did not answer but motmted my 
 horse 
 
 V 
 
 The sun had gone down behind the 
 trees that fringed the river. The warmth 
 seemed to have died out of everything, 
 and earth and sky were as cold and life- 
 less as the rough stones of the Mission. 
 
 As I rode back to the old town through 
 the gathering shadows of the twilight, I 
 
Mission de la Concepcion 
 
 thought out of what small things are 
 woven the great tragedies of life, and then 
 I thought of the old woman and the girl. 
 
 The freshened night wind murmured 
 with a vague unrest through the tops of 
 the trees. I turned in my saddle, im- 
 pelled by a fascination peculiar, terrible, 
 morose. The outlines of the old church 
 were barely distinguishable. 
 
 Darkness like a great sombre mantle 
 of gloom had settled about its frowning 
 gray brow. 
 
 I quickened my horse's gait and rode 
 on, trying to blot out as best I could from 
 my memory the vivid haunting picture 
 of a girl's eyes filled with the cunning 
 look of madness. 
 
 lor 
 
THE OLD PRIEST OF SAN 
 FRANCISCO DE LA ESPADA 
 
THE OLD PRIEST OF SAN 
 
 FRANCISCO DE LA 
 
 ESPADA^ 
 
 T^HE most remote of the several Mis- 
 sions that cluster around San An- 
 tonio stands on the bank of the San 
 Antonio River, nine miles below the old 
 town. Its dedication was to the founder 
 of the great order of the Franciscans, 
 Saint Francis of Assisi — Saint Francis 
 of the Sword. Its tower is shaped in the 
 
 ' Established 1731. 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 forni of a sword-hilt; its name Espada is 
 appropriate to the conception. 
 
 It is more of a ruin than the other old 
 churches in this region, and perhaps for 
 this reason it seems more solitary — ^more 
 alone; and clings more tenaciously to the 
 history of its dead days by very reason of 
 its isolation, crumbling stones, and pitiful 
 neglect. 
 
 It was in the convent yard of this ruin 
 that the Texas Army of Independence 
 made its first camping ground. The 
 granary, fortress walls, tumbled monas- 
 tery, are relics of the past. The brilliant 
 colored frescoes which once ornamented 
 the f agade of the old church, to the delight 
 and awe of the childlike savages, have 
 been dimmed and partially obliterated 
 by exposure to the weather and the \m- 
 sparing hand of time. 
 
 Bits of iron artistically wrought still 
 keep their hold in the falling stone. A 
 
 io6 
 
San Francisco de la Espada 
 
 doorway of Moorish design gives entrance 
 into the darkened chapel. Suspended 
 from the centre of three great stone 
 arches that span its spire, hang three 
 bells that in the gray dawn and purple 
 twilight of earlier days summoned a sav- 
 age world to the worship of a Christian 
 God. 
 
 To-day these bells are voiceless. Their 
 liquid tones no longer make music in the 
 quiet evening. They are rusting to de- 
 struction in fitting keeping with the age- 
 touched walls of the old ruin which they 
 have so long and faithfully served. 
 
 Back of the rude sacristy, through a 
 doorway, was a garden, enclosed by a 
 low stone wall, over the rough stones of 
 which climbed clinging vines. Here the 
 world and its strident noise was shut out. 
 Here oblivion covered one as a cloud hides 
 the face of the moon. 
 
 It was to this habitation, filled with 
 107 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 heavy silence and lonely as the grave, 
 that a saint-like man came to subdue the 
 devil in his flesh— to fight out in the still 
 soHtude the temptation of a memory. 
 
 It is to the deserted abodes of the liv- 
 ing that the weary-hearted wend their 
 despairing footsteps in search of their 
 one goal— death. It is not for us, who 
 are but human, to gauge the strength of 
 a temptation or the depth of a passion. 
 For is not the sincerity of the htiman 
 soul as a fleeting shadow caught from 
 the face of the burning sun by the out- 
 spread wings of an eagle in its flight? 
 
 But it is not always the weak of will 
 who voluntarily pass living into the 
 sepulchre of the dead. 
 
 Father Gilot had come as one in the 
 night to the Mission, leaving behind him 
 in the darkness the years of an already 
 spent life, in which the suppressed fires 
 of his youth left nothing but ashes. He 
 
 loS 
 
San Francisco de la Espada 
 
 had taken up his rigidly abstemious ex- 
 istence, imquestioned and unquestion- 
 ing. In the silent, unmolested garden of 
 the Mission, Father Gilot had found, to 
 a certain extent, what he had long sought 
 — oblivion. 
 
 In its dark, sheltered comers where 
 deep shadows congregated, unkissed by 
 the glory of the sun, the priest at times 
 forgot even the desire of his soul; for 
 when one lives but to pray there should 
 be no sorrow, no desire. This partial 
 peace had not come to him 
 at once. His days had been 
 filled with fasting and prayer. 
 
 In the long, quiet nights, 
 and the longer, stiller days, 
 the gray head had bowed in 
 a mea culpa. In the years 
 dead and gone he had prayed 
 so devoutly — ^he had pra^^ed 
 so long. 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 "Make me forget, O my Heavenly- 
 Father — make me forget." 
 
 It was a prayer wholly selfish. The 
 divine fire of self-abnegation for the good 
 of his fellow-mortals was not breathed 
 ever so faintly on his mortal lips. It 
 was a prayer for self, and self alone. 
 
 "I know, O my Heavenly Father, how 
 powerless my poor frail body is to do 
 good to any human creature, how in- 
 capable my reason of thinking out any 
 good for the brothers of my race. I have 
 no desire but for solitude and prayer. 
 All I ask is that my poor ineffectual light 
 may be hidden in loneliness until in thy 
 mercy thou seest fit to take it from me." 
 
 Hour after hour he knelt at the feet 
 of the Crucified. He called out with all 
 the strength of his feeble voice and the 
 fervor of his weakened body for that 
 consolation which his religion seemed 
 powerless to give, and hour after hour he 
 
San Francisco de la Espada 
 
 endured that torture which comes to one 
 who seeks with all his soul, but unsuc- 
 cessfully, the secret of renunciation. 
 
 In a comer of the garden, on a rough 
 wooden bench, stood a row of potted 
 plants. They were beginning to blossom, 
 for it was the season for flowers. Bend- 
 ing over them with solicitous care was 
 the gaunt figure of the priest. His rosary 
 hung at his waist. On the end of the 
 bench lay a little volume of Latin prayers. 
 
 Father Gilot was old — so old that his 
 shoulders drooped pitifully under the 
 weight of his black robe, frayed and 
 worn. His hands trembled as much from 
 long, sterile vigils and severe fasts as 
 from the flight of advancing years, which 
 had touched to silver his long thin hair. 
 
 It was toward the close of a young 
 spring day. The fresh verdure of the 
 flower-laden air, the blue of the sky, the 
 singing and mating of birds, seemed to 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 mock at him in his old age and loneliness. 
 Suddenly he bent over the tender green 
 in one of the pots. A tiny blossom was 
 budding forth. It was the color of God's 
 skies in the sunlight — the color, too, of 
 fair women's eyes — her eyes — the eyes of 
 his heart's desire. 
 
 With a savage impulse, almost cruelly 
 inhimian. Father Gilot dashed the pot 
 and plant far beyond the garden wall. 
 
 "It grew there to tempt me!" he cried, 
 wildly throwing out his arms and looking 
 up into the cloud-filled sky. "It is an 
 injustice of the God to whom I give my 
 life in prayer." 
 
 In a moment he was subdued, cowed 
 by the blasphemy of his words. He sank 
 to his knees on the bare stones and bowed 
 his head in abject humiliation, and beat 
 his breast for finding it in his heart to 
 question the righteous wisdom of his 
 God. 
 
San Francisco de la Espada 
 
 For some time he prayed. The sun- 
 light mellowed and its reflected gold 
 touched with a warm caress the cold gray- 
 walls of the church. The priest's solitude 
 was unexpectedly broken. There was the 
 sound of a woman's light 
 laugh, followed by an excla- 
 mation of surprise. It jarred 
 on the quiet evening air — it 
 struck a discordant note, in 
 a place where laughter dared 
 not enter. 
 
 After the first moment of 
 surprise Father Gilot rose to 
 his feet, the rosary dropping 
 from his hands, an angry flush 
 burning deep in each sunken 
 cheek. 
 
 "Woman, how dare you to come to 
 
 rob me of my peace?" The man's voice, 
 
 though raised to a high pitch, was as 
 
 hollow and toneless as the bells hanging 
 113 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 in the arches of crumbUng stone. The 
 figiire framed in the doorway of the 
 sacristy trembled like a leaf in the wind. 
 Her delicately featured face was instantly 
 suffused with color. 
 
 "Oh! I am so sorry," she faltered, "so 
 very sorry to have disturbed you. I did 
 not know one should not come here. The 
 door was open and we could find no one 
 to show us about." 
 
 She stood for a moment a fair appari- 
 tion in the light of the waning day, then 
 turned and disappeared as quickly as she 
 had come, leaving the atmosphere tainted 
 faintly with the odor of a subtle, seductive 
 perfume. 
 
 Father Gilot started forward with out- 
 stretched hands, a cry on his lips — 
 
 "Helen!" 
 
 Checking himself suddenly he covered 
 his face with his hands and staggered like 
 one drunk with wine. 
 114 
 
San Francisco de la Espada 
 
 "Christ! her hair, and eyes — I can see 
 nothing but her eyes — ^her eyes — always 
 her eyes. God, they have burned into 
 my brain!" 
 
 A terrible sob broke from the man's 
 throat. He fell shaking to his knees. 
 With a quick, vigorous movement he 
 threw his head back and looked up into 
 the blue vault of heaven. "Is it per- 
 mitted that the dead so mock at the 
 living?" 
 
 He lifted his arms in supplication. 
 
 "My God, how long must this torture 
 rack my brain?" Incoherent words 
 flowed as a swollen stream flows to an 
 outlet in the sea. 
 
 For the first time in all his years of 
 silent grief Father Gilot gave way un- 
 reservedly — unreservedly he bared his 
 soul. 
 
 A sudden wind had come back out of 
 the west. Fierce angry clouds obscured 
 115 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 the golden haze of the setting sun. Great 
 drops of rain splashed down on the stones 
 about the kneeling priest. These in- 
 creased with the wind to a downpour. 
 
 Father Gilot staggered to his feet and 
 felt his way to the door of the sacristy. 
 His progress was arrested. His thin 
 slippered foot trod upon something. He 
 stooped and in the uncertain light saw 
 it was a knot of ribbon — a knot of blue 
 ribbon. "How came it here?" He 
 breathed the words softly to himself. 
 He held the ribbon in his hands. Dur- 
 ing the space of uncounted moments, 
 the white-haired priest stood immovable ; 
 then he went into his bare little living 
 room. At its threshold he crossed himself ; 
 "Just this once, my 
 Heavenly Father — just 
 this once. This day 
 Thou didst tempt me 
 too sorely." 
 
San Francisco de la Espada 
 
 He entered the bare little room with 
 its meagre monastic furnishings and took 
 from a drawer a small box. Carefully he 
 unlocked and opened it. Inside lay a 
 knot of faded blue ribbon. With a start 
 he looked first at the ribbon in his hand, 
 then at that in the box, resting as he had 
 last placed it in the years of his youth. 
 Suddenly a look of exultation spread over 
 his pale wrinkled face. 
 
 "If the dead can so come back, then I 
 will find her." 
 
 Passion, like a demon, strong, uncon- 
 querable, took quick possession of the 
 man. He rushed forward and swung 
 open the door. The rain beat into his 
 face as he staggered out into the black 
 storm-racked night, following the light 
 of a woman's face and calling over and 
 over again her name. 
 
 "Helen! Helen! I am seeking you — can 
 you not hear my voice? Come back to 
 117 
 
The Old Priest of 
 
 me — come back. O Lord, have mercy — 
 have mercy. Let her come back to me 
 only for a moment — only for a moment. 
 Let her come back so that I may touch 
 with my living hands her living body." 
 A quick gush of wind rushed by and his 
 voice was lost in the night. 
 
San Francisco de la lEspada 
 
 Through the tall wet grasses, under 
 the dripping trees, down by the rushing 
 stream he sought her all through the long 
 wild night, — unheedful that his church- 
 man's robe was wet, torn and mud- 
 stained. 
 
 In the chill of the dawn he crept back 
 into the dark church and sank abjectly 
 at the foot of the cross. His pallid lips 
 tried to frame the words of a prayer, but 
 no sound disturbed the deathlike still- 
 ness inside the chapel. Out in the mist- 
 filled morning, a mad, gay carol was 
 pouring from the throbbing throats of 
 the mocking-birds. 
 
 The violent shivering of the priest's 
 
 frail body gradually ceased. His face 
 
 was upturned to the figure of the suffering 
 
 Saviour, but the look of hope had faded 
 
 from his eyes, and in its place was the 
 
 symbol of the Crucified. When the day 
 
 broke, bright and clear, a shaft of 
 119 
 
The Old Priest 
 
 sunlight glancing through one of the 
 chapel windows fell full on his white head. 
 And though Father Gilot died wearing 
 the cassock of one whose life was con- 
 secrated to God, and with a prayer in his 
 soul, he clasped in his hand a knot of blue 
 ribbon, and in his heart was enshrined 
 the image of a woman's face. 
 
TOMMY HUNTRESS 
 
TOMMY HUNTRESS 
 
 I F Tommy Huntress's eyes had not been 
 ^ of such a deep brown, or their expres- 
 sion less soulful, and if his hair, with its 
 straight white parting, way over on the 
 left side, had not been so jet black, nor 
 his cheeks and his lips so red, perhaps he 
 might have led his secluded life without 
 interruption. 
 
 I don't mean by this de- 
 scription of Tommy Huntress's 
 personal pulchritude to imply 
 that he was effeminate. On the 
 contrary, his figure, his manly 
 dignity, and his strength of 
 character proved him otherwise. 
 He stood six feet two without 
 his shoes, his shoulders were 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 broad and square, and he had proved 
 his physical prowess at the Academy 
 when but a stripling. 
 
 But that there was something radical- 
 ly wrong with Tommy Huntress was a 
 fact settled beyond the peradventure of a 
 doubt by the board of regulators at the 
 post. Since his arrival among them all 
 the girls at the post had smiled their 
 sweetest to no avail. Even the wiles of 
 the married women had failed utterly. 
 
 It was finally settled by the command- 
 ing officer's wife. She had announced it 
 at a woman's luncheon: "Tommy Hun- 
 tress is in love." 
 
 This statement, of course, occasioned 
 a coolness on the part of the girls towards 
 the dignified captain, and an ardent 
 attempt on the part of the married 
 women to sjnnpathize with him. 
 
 The general verdict among the men was 
 
 that the report was a "damned slander. 
 124 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 Because a man shunned women and was 
 quiet was no reason to believe that he 
 was in love." 
 
 Tommy Huntress, of course, was not 
 aware that he was the subject of garrison 
 gossip and speculation, or that his mode 
 of living had won for him the title of 
 "the hermit of the post," but even had 
 he known, it would not have made the 
 slightest difference in his manner or 
 habits. He confided in no one. The 
 sorrow and disappointment of his life was 
 his own secret. He could have found no 
 consolation in its telling. 
 
 His days he devoted to the strict dis- 
 charge of his duties — his nights were his 
 own, and it was then that he suffered 
 most. It was 'then that he ceased the 
 battle with self — the fight of the daylight 
 hours to beat down a sorrow that was 
 almost unbearable. But in the solitude 
 of the night hours he allowed this grief 
 125 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 to engulf and absorb him. He paced the 
 floor of his lonely bachelor quarters until 
 sheer fatigue forced him to bed. Even 
 there his empty arms reached out in his 
 sleep. 
 
 One day Tommy heard a piece of news 
 that caused his heart to throb fiercely and 
 set his blood all a-tingle. 
 
 The commanding officer of the garrison 
 had asked for sick leave and General 
 Wilson had been ordered to Fort Sam 
 Houston to fill the temporary vacancy. 
 This information was published in the 
 Army and Navy Journal, and what made 
 it of particular importance and interest 
 to Tommy was the publication in another 
 part of the Journal of an announcement 
 of the engagement of the new command- 
 ing officer and Miss Griswold. They were 
 to be married sometime during the coming 
 winter. 
 
 " Of course," added the kind individual 
 126 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 who read the news to Tommy, "you have 
 heard of Miss Helen Griswold; she is a 
 daughter of General Griswold, and one of 
 the most beautiful women in the army." 
 
 Yes, Tommy had heard of her. He 
 left the man as quickly as he could and, 
 going to his quarters, he despatched a 
 letter to the War Department at Wash- 
 ington asking that he be relieved at once. 
 
 Like a caged, lion he paced the confines 
 of his small sitting-room. 
 
 "God!" he cried, "what wantons some 
 respectable women are at heart. I '11 be 
 damned if I '11 serve under the man she 
 is going to marry." 
 
 There was no sleep or rest for Tommy 
 Huntress that night, nor for many nights 
 that followed. 
 
 The hop-room in the quadrangle at 
 Fort Sam Houston was beautifully illu- 
 minated with myriads of soft lights. The 
 127 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 walls and ceiling were hidden by great 
 boughs of wild laurel, giving the effect of 
 a woodland scene. Huge banners of stars 
 and stripes hung against the dark green 
 foliage. 
 
 The Twenty-Sixth Infantry Band was 
 playing the Alamo March, composed by 
 their leader, Csesar Torsiello. The officers 
 in their spotless white uniforms and the 
 girls in their soft gowns made a picture 
 of gaiety and beauty. It was Tommy 
 Huntress's initial appearance at a dance 
 at the post. That he should be there 
 created a sensation. 
 
 Tommy had not come out of inclination 
 or a desire to be there. His name had 
 been put down on the committee on floor 
 arrangements and at the mess that day, 
 when he had announced that he was not 
 going to attend the dance, his brother 
 officers resented so furiously his disregard 
 of social duties that Tommy decided that 
 128 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 he must make the effort this one time 
 and go. 
 
 He tried not to look bored and even 
 made an effort to seem pleased at the 
 cordial reception given him by the army 
 people. Indeed the welcome he received 
 made him feel as though he had just 
 returned from a foreign war. 
 
 Tommy Huntress was not dancing. He 
 was standing near the entrance to the 
 room, watching with unseeing eyes the 
 scene before him. The cotillion was just 
 starting. One of the officers stood near 
 him and Tommy answered in a desultory 
 way the questions of the other man. 
 Suddenly through the brilHantly lighted 
 room came a quick exclamation of 
 genuine admiration which caused even 
 the indifferent Tommy to turn and look 
 at the object that called it forth. 
 
 His jaws set themselves firmly together 
 and his breath came quick and fast. It 
 129 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 hurt him even more than he had im- 
 agined it would if he ever saw her again. 
 
 She was very beautiful in her soft, 
 white, clinging dress as she stood framed 
 in the doorway. Suddenly her eyes, as if 
 drawn by a magnet, tiimed their gaze 
 to those of Tommy. 
 
 Even under the glare of the lamps her 
 face seemed to grow intensely white. In 
 that first instant of sudden, unexpected 
 meeting they forgot resentment, and in 
 answer to the starved, hungry look in 
 the man's face the woman would have 
 rushed to him, but she saw that as 
 quickly as the look came it had gone, and 
 the man's expression spoke a curse. 
 
 Before either could realize it, she was 
 
 whisked away in the figure of the dance, 
 
 and as Tommy, stiU dazed, turned to 
 
 leave the hop-room, a hand was placed 
 
 on his arm and the voice of one of the 
 
 officers' wives was insisting teasingly that 
 130 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 he allow her the privilege of favoring him. 
 With at least an appearance of gallantry- 
 he took the diminutive flag from her and 
 for the first time in two years Tommy- 
 Huntress was dancing. At the sound of 
 the leader's whistle, the women placed 
 themselves behind a long screen at one 
 end of the room and a row of hands ap- 
 peared above its top. At a second signal 
 the men rushed forward and took captive 
 the dainty hands. 
 
 Each unseen maiden was led forth by 
 her unseen captor. The hand Tommy 
 Huntress held was small, adorably dainty, 
 but its shape and beauty, until the iden- 
 tity of its owner was revealed to him, 
 was lost, and then the blood turned to 
 fire in his veins. 
 
 For the space of a second they stood 
 looking at each other, neither speaking. 
 Then Tommy, still holding the slender 
 
 hand, led his partner through the dancers 
 
 131 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 and out into the moon-filled night. When 
 the two had reached the end of the walk 
 in the quadrangle enclosure Tommy 
 spoke. His voice was unsteady and a 
 little harsh: 
 
 "Why, in God's name, have you treated 
 me in this way, Helen?" 
 
 "Treated you in what way?" — a sob 
 caught her breath and she looked at the 
 man with wide eyes. 
 
 "Why did you tell me you loved 
 me ? ' ' — the man's voice was stem. ' ' Why 
 did you tell me when I was suddenly 
 
 ordered to the 
 Philippines that 
 you would fol- 
 low me and 
 marry me there ? 
 Why did you let 
 me go away with 
 the memory of 
 your kisses still 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 warm on my lips, and the dream of 
 happiness to come that was a heaven- — 
 why, oh, why did you do it?" 
 
 Tommy's voice broke and he closed 
 his eyes and clinched his hands, choking 
 down a sob that was well-nigh suffocat- 
 ing him. Slowly he opened his eyes and 
 looked up into the great round moon, 
 which shed its silver rays about them. 
 
 "God! " — the words came through shut 
 teeth — "happiness! A thing as intan- 
 gible as a dream that disappears like a 
 phantom in the pathway of the moon!" 
 With a quick gesture he held out his 
 hands to her. 
 
 "Why did you go back on every 
 promise you made me — why did you 
 take away from me my contentment and 
 make my life a hell ? " 
 
 "Captain Huntress, you shall not talk 
 to me like this. Every word you have 
 said about me is absolutely untrue 1" 
 133 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 The girl's vehemence surprised even 
 herself. 
 
 "I had not broken one promise I made 
 to you until you, yourself, through your 
 indifference and neglect, forced 
 me, out of self-respect and what 
 pride I had, to give you up. I 
 was honest with you when I said 
 I loved you, and you know it." 
 The eyes that looked up into 
 his were honest, truthful. 
 
 "I went to the Philippines, 
 and you knew that too, but did 
 not make it convenient to leave 
 your regiment and come to 
 Manila, where I had asked you 
 to meet me. You did not even 
 have the consideration to an- 
 swer the letter I sent you from Manila 
 begging you to come to me. 
 
 There was a quick exclamation from 
 
 the man: 
 
 134 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 "You wrote to me? You came to 
 Manila?" The questions were demanded 
 in a tone of genuine amazement. ' ' Helen, 
 I swear to you that I never knew it until 
 now." 
 
 The girl moved nearer to him. 
 
 "You mean to say you did not get my 
 letters — one telling you I was going to 
 Manila, or the one sent you from there?" 
 
 Tommy Huntress had taken the girl in 
 his arms and was looking down into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "And you were true to me, Helen? It 
 is too good to believe." 
 
 With her soul in her eyes the girl 
 spoke : 
 
 "You still love me, Tommy?" 
 
 With a groan he caught her to him. 
 
 "Love you — my darling, I am mad for 
 you. I want you every minute of my 
 life. I cannot bear that another man 
 should even look at you." 
 135 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 His lips were very near hers, but he 
 drew back quickly, releasing his hold of 
 her. His figure was drawn up in a sol- 
 dierly attitude, rigid, stiff. 
 
 "Pardon me for my presumption — ^you 
 are engaged to General Wilson, our new 
 commanding officer. I wish you all the 
 happiness of life. You will not be an- 
 noyed by my presence here, for I have 
 already asked to be relieved. Come, we 
 will go back to the hop-room." 
 
 "Tommy, you won't leave me like this, 
 will you?" The girl's arms were held out 
 entreatingly. "Let me at least explain to 
 you — ^Tommy, please wait and listen to 
 me!" 
 
 The man stopped, but did not turn 
 toward her. 
 
 The girl hesitated some moments as if 
 searching for words to tell her story. 
 Before she began she laid a hand gently 
 on the man's arm. 
 
 136 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 "You know, Tommy, after I had 
 written you those letters and had gone 
 to the Philippines to — to marry you and 
 you did not even come to see me or write 
 once, I tried to harden my heart against 
 you." She paused, her hand against her 
 lips to keep back a sob. If the man had 
 looked at her he would have seen the 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 "I tried to make myself feel. Tommy, 
 that if you did not love me I did not love 
 you." Both the girl's hands were now 
 clutching the man's arm. 
 
 "I couldn't, Tommy, I couldn't. I 
 loved you even when General Wilson 
 asked me to marry him and I said I 
 would." 
 
 With a quick, impatient gesture the 
 man threw off the girl's hands. She gave 
 a little, low cry. 
 
 "Ah, Tommy, can't you understand 
 how much easier it is to do the things 
 
 137 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 we are forced into doing than to fight 
 against them?" There was a sudden 
 quickening in the girl's voice. 
 
 "Remember, Tommy, my father's and 
 General Wilson's friendship dated from 
 the war. It was the desire of my father's 
 heart to see me married to him. With his 
 insistency. General Wilson's pleading, and 
 your indifference, I yielded." There was a 
 tremor in her voice and tears in her eyes 
 as she spoke. 
 
 "Do you blame me so much, Tommy, 
 for what I have done?" 
 
 For some seconds the man covered his 
 eyes with his hands, then he took the 
 girl again in his arms. 
 
 "You don't love General Wilson?" 
 There was a pathetic little note in the 
 voice that answered his question: 
 
 "I don't love anybody but you, 
 
 Tommy." 
 
 The next moment her face was buried 
 138 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 on his shoulder and he was whispering 
 into her ear. 
 
 " Then before God you sha'n't marry 
 any one but me." She drew away from 
 him. 
 
 "Tommy, would you like the girl you 
 love to be accused by a man of unfaith- 
 fulness — the way you 
 have accused me 
 to-night?" 
 
 "Ah, sweetheart," 
 he begged, holding her 
 close to him again, 
 "don't be cruel to 
 
 /' „.u....m can be 
 
 Dotn cruel and tender 
 when she loves as I 
 do, Tommy, and re- 
 member you deserve 
 just a little harsh 
 treatment for trust- 
 ing the mail service 
 
 
 «.^*»/«^gJj^vpT*- ■■U-^riiM^'=^ 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 more than you trusted me — now don't 
 you, dear?" 
 
 Tommy's answer was so close to her 
 lips that she could not quite make out 
 the meaning of the words. When he 
 allowed her to speak, she said: 
 
 "Yes, Tommy, we will be married at 
 once." Then, in answer to his protest: 
 
 "Never mind, the General is old, and 
 consequently sensible." She took his face 
 in her hands and looked at him long and 
 searchingly — the light of the moon was 
 bright and clear. 
 
 "Tommy — " a long pause, filled in 
 with ardent, fervid kisses — "Tommy," 
 she pleaded. "You are not going to take 
 me to some little, out-of-the-way post, 
 are you ? Fort Sam Houston is so beauti- 
 ful and so attractive, and I want to stay 
 here with you." 
 
 For some long seconds Tommy silenced 
 
 the small mouth, while the strains of 
 140 
 
Tommy Huntress 
 
 Torseillo's heavenly dance floated out to 
 them from the hop-room. 
 
 "Let 's stay here, Tommy! " The voice 
 was fiUed with allurement. 
 
 "But don't you see, my sweetheart, 
 that we can't?" 
 
 "No, I don't see why we can't." The 
 girl spoke with her head against his 
 shoulder. Tommy Huntress for the sec- 
 ond time took her face in his hands and 
 looked down into her dark eyes. 
 
 "My sweetheart, don't you understand 
 that if I could not serve under a man 
 who was going to marry you, I would 
 not serve under a man whose fiancee I 
 had stolen?" 
 
 "Kiss me," the girl breathed, her 
 mouth close to his. 
 
 And the Texas moon smiled down upon 
 them out of pure wantonness. 
 
 141 
 
PHILLIPA, THE CHILI QUEEN 
 
PHILLIPA, THE CHILI 
 QUEEN 
 
 A LL of a sudden his blood went hot 
 ^ like fire. 
 
 The man's eyes had for the space of a 
 second met those of the Chili Queen. 
 
 Phillipa's dark and wonderful orbs had 
 often lured and held men, and not en- 
 tirely for the sake of the peppery chili con 
 came and indigestible enchiladas which 
 it was her nightly business to serve to 
 
 rst victim. Jack Talcott, seated 
 t the 
 
 long, narrow table 
 and across its 
 white-covered sur- 
 face his eyes fol- 
 lowed the lithe, 
 graceful figure of 
 
 ^jj,-.. 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 the Mexican girl. There were others in the 
 small quadrangle formed by the narrow 
 tables, who were just as busy as Phillipa 
 — perhaps more so, because part of 
 Phillipa's business was to be agreeable. 
 The owners of the stand had learned the 
 value of the girl's beauty, and paid her 
 extra money for enticing customers ; and 
 that is why, as they bent over the pots 
 of pepper and garlic-seasoned food, they 
 failed to notice the rapt, almost devour- 
 ing gaze the good-looking American be- 
 stowed upon Phillipa. 
 
 For three nights Jack Talcott had been 
 cruelly and wantonly careless of his di- 
 gestive organs. The effects of Mexican 
 dishes, if one fancies them as an occa- 
 sional indulgence, are not irremediable, 
 but as a night-after-night diet they are 
 strictly to be avoided. It was not, how- 
 ever, altogether physically that Talcott 
 
 suffered. Just three nights had Talcott 
 146 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 been in San Antonio, and these three 
 nights he had spent at the Chili Queen's 
 side — ever since that first evening of his 
 arrival from New York, when he had 
 stood in front of the hotel, and been 
 attracted by the twinkling lights of the 
 Mexican chili stands on the other side of 
 the plaza. 
 
 It was a warm night with the sky black 
 and starless. The leaves of the great 
 palms in the plaza were stirred by the 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 soft winds creeping up from the southern 
 sea. 
 
 The thermometer, when Talcott left 
 New York, registered several degrees be- 
 low the freezing point. Snow three inches 
 deep covered the surface of the earth, 
 and it had been a bleak and monoto- 
 nous landscape that met his tired gaze 
 on his southern flight. The contrast of 
 the warmth of this western Texas at- 
 mosphere soothed and delighted him. 
 The lights from the chili stands gleamed 
 like fireflies through the tropical night. 
 
 It was out of curiosity, at first, that he 
 walked over for a nearer inspection of the 
 dark-skinned people serving the food of 
 their country. As he approached the 
 table some one spoke to him: 
 
 "The Serior wishes tamales, chili con 
 came, tortillas — there are some fine en- 
 chiladas to-night. I made them my- 
 self." 
 
 148 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 Did a laugh follow the words? Tal- 
 cott thought it did, for her head was 
 tossed back and a smile just parted the 
 red lips. Her h\l\, long throat, a tempta- 
 tion in itself, was set off by a low bodice 
 of vivid red. Held daintily between her 
 fingers was a corn-shuck cigarro. Under 
 the spell of her eyes the man felt a pe- 
 culiar thrill. 
 
 Again there was the same low, seductive 
 laugh, like the murmur of a soft breeze. 
 Quickly the slender figure turned, and as 
 quickly laid before the American a plate 
 of steaming viands. 
 
 "Will the Senor not sit down?' 
 
 Talcott sank into the indicated chair. 
 
 He watched the small, shapely hands and 
 
 smooth brown arms as she deftly arranged 
 
 the Mexican dishes in front of him, but 
 
 longer he watched the face, with its rich 
 
 red lips and oval contour, the hair like 
 
 polished jet, and the eyes, from which 
 149 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 shone the childlike innocence of a saint, 
 belying the mouth, which was that of a 
 sinner. 
 
 If one of Talcott's friends had suddenly- 
 tapped him on the shoulder and called 
 him to time, the young fellow would have 
 seen and realized the folly of his ways; 
 but he was in a far-away country, his 
 identity was unknown, the environment 
 free — easy for a stranger. And the Chili 
 Queen was so deliciously quaint, petite, 
 and alluring. 
 
 So it went, night after night finding the 
 young Northerner by the Mexican mu- 
 chacha's side, until one evening the girl's 
 careless laugh ended suddenly, and her 
 slender frame winced as if the flesh had 
 felt a physical hurt. 
 
 Each moment, when not busy serving 
 
 customers, Phillipa had been talking to 
 
 the American. For the first time in her 
 
 life the Chili Queen's heart had been 
 150 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 really touched. Her love spoke in her 
 eyes and Talcott began to feel potently 
 its alluring charm. Her coquetry and 
 flashing smiles forced the man to a more 
 passionate wooing. 
 
 "Are you tired, Phillipa, of this life?" 
 
 There was a pretty shrug of the girl's 
 shoulders and a coy hesitancy. 
 
 "No — o, meb'y not, Senor. 1 
 
 know no other. Why ? ' ' 
 
 The girl leaned across the table, her 
 face close to his, 
 and there was that 
 in it which drove 
 him mad. 
 
 "If I asked you 
 to leave all this 
 and come with 
 me?" He laid his 
 hand on hers. The 
 girl closed her eyes 
 for a second and 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 drew in a long, deep breath. When 
 she opened them it was not necessary for 
 her to speak. Talcott read in their depths 
 his answer and his hand closed tighter 
 about hers. 
 
 At that moment a sudden, quick look 
 flashed into her face. Fleeting though it 
 was, to the two men who saw it the im- 
 pression which it left was unpleasant. 
 Quickly Phillipa released her hand and 
 drew it across her eyes. She laughed 
 suddenly, hysterically. 
 
 "Como estas, — how are you, Benito?" 
 
 The words were forced from between 
 lips rigid and drawn, and Talcott noticed 
 that her entire body was shaking as if 
 with the cold. 
 
 There was an answer in a deep, harsh 
 voice from some one standing close beside 
 him. Talcott turned and looked at the 
 man. He met the steady gaze of a dark- 
 skinned Mexican whose whole figure was 
 152 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 frightfully thin, and whose face was 
 drawn and cadaverous. 
 
 Phillipa was called to the other side of 
 the table, and with a vindictive grunt the 
 Mexican followed her. 
 
 "Who is the gringo, Phillipa." He 
 leered at the girl as he spoke. "Same 
 kind as the other American dog?" 
 
 For a moment the girl's eyes flashed. 
 "Don't you dare to speak of him, you 
 villain — you murderer!" 
 
 "Phillipa," called the shrill voice of an 
 old woman bending over the steaming 
 pots, "some one is calling for you." 
 
 The Chili Queen turned, but she was 
 held back by the fierce detaining hand 
 of the Mexican. 
 
 "That's right," he hissed, "murderer, 
 and whose fault was it ? " 
 
 The grip on the girl's arm tightened; 
 
 she could have screamed with the pain 
 
 of it. 
 
 153 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 ' ' Whose fault was it, I say ? ' ' He pulled 
 her around so that she faced him. His 
 eyes blazed into hers. 
 
 "Yours," he choked, "yours. The 
 penitentiary is nothing — five years of it 
 has n't made me sorry. A man would do 
 murder twice over and let his soul follow 
 him to hell for such as you." 
 
 Again the old woman's voice called im- 
 patiently, "Phillipa, Phillipa, will you 
 come? " 
 
 "Tell her you will come," the man said 
 harshly, but the frightened girl could not 
 speak. " Orita, in a little while," he called 
 out to the woman. 
 
 "Tell me you will send that man 
 away," he continued, turning to the girl, 
 "and I will not hurt him — go on, be 
 quick about it — ^you will?" 
 
 Phillipa gasped through trembling lips 
 her answer, "Yes." The man drew a 
 breath of relief. 
 
 154 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 "Then go over to him now while I 
 watch you and tell him^do you under- 
 stand, now!" 
 
 Phillipa nodded her head. She moved 
 a little unsteadily. The gay, happy, care- 
 less Phillipa had died, as a flower withers 
 in the hot sun. 
 
 Benito, the Mexican, took from his 
 pocket a corn shuck, and slowly and care- 
 fully rolled himself a cigarette. His cone- 
 crowned sombrero was pulled well down 
 over his face, but from under its wide 
 brim he followed the 
 girl's movements with 
 evil eyes. 
 
 Talcott had watched 
 this scene with a feeling 
 of uneasiness, and when 
 the girl,white and pant- 
 ing, staggered over to 
 him, he asked sharply: 
 
 "Phillipa, who is 
 
 f ?/) 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 that man and what right has he to treat 
 you so?" 
 
 The girl answered hurriedly: 
 "Meet me, Seiior, at daybreak, on the 
 south side of the Alamo. I will explain 
 it all." She leaned nearer to him, her 
 voice sank to a whisper. "Don't stay 
 here now, he is watching us; you asked 
 me to go with you^ — I will go." She 
 turned quickly and began to wait on 
 customers. 
 
 Across the tables with their dim oil 
 lamps Talcott saw the eyes of the Mex- 
 ican still watching him. Though the 
 night's proceedings had somewhat awak- 
 ened him from his foolish infatuation, the 
 girl's vibrant appeal still rang in his ears 
 as he stiimbled over the uneven pave- 
 ments of the narrow streets. It was two 
 hotirs until daylight and Talcott knew 
 it was useless to go to his room at the 
 
 hotel — ^he could not sleep. When the 
 156 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 faint light of dawn crept over the sleep- 
 ing city the man turned his steps in the 
 direction of the Alamo. 
 
 The people at the chili stands were 
 carefully putting away their belong- 
 ings — the business for the night was 
 over. 
 
 As Talcott approached the old chapel 
 he saw the figiire of Phillipa enveloped 
 in her mantilla. The hitherto radiant 
 Chili Queen appeared humble, subdued. 
 As he approached she looked about 
 cautiously in the uncertain light, then 
 rushed toward him with an appealing 
 gesture. 
 
 "Ah, Senor, did you mean what you 
 said — that you would take me away? 
 I have prayed to the Holy Virgin that 
 you did." 
 
 Her voice and eyes were filled with 
 tears. 
 
 "Tell me first, Phillipa "— Talcott 
 157 
 
Phillipa, 
 
 spoke calmly — "who was the Mexican 
 who talked with you last night?" 
 
 With a quick movement Phillipa freed 
 her head from its black covering. The 
 blood red of the rose nestling in her 
 black hair stood out in aggressive con- 
 trast to the pallor of her face. 
 
 "He is a man I hate, Senor, and he 
 loves me and wants me to marry him; 
 but I will go with you, Senor, I will go 
 with you, for I love you with all my soul. " 
 The girl's eyes looked the passion that 
 filled her voice. 
 
 Talcott was both sorry and angry for 
 the predicament in which he was placed, 
 — angry with himself, sorry for the girl. 
 
 There was only one thing for him to 
 do, — ^keep faith with Phillipa. He was 
 just about to speak when the sound of 
 a voice came abruptly from out of the 
 shadows : 
 
 "Only part of that is true, Seiior 
 
 158 
 
The Chili Queen 
 
 Americano. " The voice was close to 
 them. Phillipa gave a little cry and 
 clung to Talcott. The dark figure of 
 the Mexican advanced from the shadows 
 and confronted the two. < 
 
 "Phillipa says she does not love me^ 
 that is a lie, because she does. I killed 
 one American because he came between 
 us, and I am only just out of jail for it. 
 I come back to Phillipa and find you 
 here. You have been making love to 
 her — she has thought she loved you and 
 would go away with you. What she 
 
Phillipa, the Chili Queen 
 
 shall do is to come with me. I am one 
 of her own race. I have loved her long 
 and I will always love her and she shall 
 love me. You do not love her, Senor, 
 and if you try to take her from me I 
 will kill you as I killed the other gringo. 
 Now go and leave us alone. " He held 
 out his hand: 
 
 "Come, Phillipa." 
 
 The girl looked at Talcott, then at the 
 Mexican. Slowly she left the American's 
 side. The Mexican's power over her 
 was supreme. He took her trembling 
 hand in his and led her away. 
 
 " Adios, Senor," he called to Talcott, 
 "Adios," 
 
 i6o 
 
THE RED ROSE OF SAN JOSE 
 
THE RED ROSE OF 
 SAN JOSE' 
 
 I 
 
 CAR out across the undtilating prairie 
 the notes of the angelus fell clear 
 and sweet on the quiet evening air. 
 
 A bare-footed Franciscan monk and a 
 Spanish soldier stopped in their weary, 
 halting journey and reverently crossed 
 themselves. Save for the mellow tones 
 of the monastery bell, no 
 sound disturbed the still- 
 ness of the declining day. 
 As the last stroke died in 
 a faint echo, and the plains 
 were wrapped in silence, 
 these two, standing with 
 bowed heads in prayerful 
 meditation, were symbolic 
 
 I Mission established 1718. 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 of the times when the soldier and the 
 priest went hand in hand into the wilder- 
 ness of a new-found world, the one, 
 patient even unto martyrdom, to plant 
 the cross; the other to defend it with 
 martial valor. 
 
 The setting sun fell full on the two 
 figures, lighting up the brilliant uniform 
 of the soldier, and touching into silver 
 the white hair of the gray-habited friar. 
 About them lay the vast expanse of 
 prairie land, covered with tall waving 
 grass and gay with the varying colors 
 of the wild flowers. The breeze blowing 
 soft across the plains, was heavy with 
 the odor of spring blossoms, and its 
 freshness cooled the hot, dust-covered 
 faces of the travellers. 
 
 Again crossing themselves, the trav- 
 ellers resumed their journey in the direc- 
 tion of a white belfry tower which rose 
 
 above the tops of a tall line of trees, 
 
 164 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 crowned with a gilded cross, now touched 
 red by the glow of the setting sun. The 
 bent figure of the aged, bare-footed 
 friar contrasted strangely with the youth- 
 ful form of the soldier, and the coarse 
 woollen robe worn by the monk looked 
 poor and shabby in comparison with 
 the martial accoutrements of the younger 
 man. A sword hung in its glittering 
 scabbard from the side of the soldier, 
 ever ready to leap forth in quick defence 
 or attack, but the churchman was un- 
 armed. His only weapon was the one 
 which he turned against himself. Half 
 hidden in the folds of his plain rough 
 gown it dangled — a knotted hempen cord, 
 the scourge with which he chastised him- 
 self for his sins and transgressions, by 
 inflicting blows on his naked shoulders. 
 
 There was yet a good stretch of country 
 between them and the Mission which 
 lay on the farther side of the stream, 
 165 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 and the young soldier gave vent to a 
 half-suppressed sigh of pain as he meas- 
 ured the distance with his eye. Many 
 a weary mile these two had travelled 
 since leaving Mexico, although their 
 journey had not been started together. 
 Both were footsore and weary. The 
 wound in the soldier's side had reopened 
 and the blood oozing forth had stained 
 his red coat to a deeper hue, and where 
 it fell to the ground it dyed crimson 
 the delicate pinks and yellows of the 
 field flowers. The soldier was weak 
 and faint from loss of blood and from 
 hunger, but as he felt the trembling in 
 the aged body under his arm, which 
 was circled about the stooped shoulders 
 of the monk, a feeling of fierce protest 
 rose within him, that he, the strong, 
 should be forced to lean on the weak, 
 and he strove to lean less heavily on his 
 companion. 
 
 i66 
 
Of San Jos^ 
 
 When they reached the tall line of 
 timber edging the bank of the river, 
 the monk paused and allowed the form 
 of the soldier to slip down gently to the 
 bank. He then removed his sandals, 
 and waded out into the clear, limpid 
 water of the slowly moving current. 
 While Fray Antonio was bending over 
 wetting his coarse cotton handkerchief 
 in the water, something stirred ever so 
 little in one of the trees near where the 
 soldier lay. With the stealth of a cat 
 a slight brown figure slipped down from 
 the bed of leaves and moss where it 
 had been concealed, and, edging its way 
 noiselessly along, stopped behind the 
 trunk of a large oak and, peering around 
 cautiously, looked with wide, wondering 
 eyes into the pale fair face of the boy. 
 
 It was a girl, slender and straight as 
 a sapling, her skin brown as the nuts 
 
 that fall in the autumn, and her long 
 
 167 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 straight hair, which fell in a mass about 
 her shoulders, was the color of the 
 raven's wing. 
 
 The soldier's eyes were closed so that 
 she could not see their deep clear blue, 
 so different from her own, which were as 
 dark and mysterious as the depths of a 
 forest at midnight. 
 
 It was only a short time that she 
 gazed, but in that time her breath came 
 and went quickly and a deeper color 
 surged up under her skin and her lips 
 parted in a half-suppressed exclamation. 
 Quickly and soundlessly as she had 
 come the girl disappeared. 
 
 Fray Antonio was returning with the 
 wet handkerchief, with which he bathed 
 the face and parched lips of the soldier. 
 His tender solicitude for the wounded 
 man was that of a woman. Looking up 
 the length of the stream he discovered 
 a crude foot-bridge made of a fallen log, 
 
 l68 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 and with some difficulty succeeded in 
 getting the soldier to the other side, 
 where they found themselves in a tangle 
 of brush. They had not gone many 
 steps through this maze of mesquite 
 and chaparral when the monk's eye was 
 attracted by a bright patch of color in 
 the grayish thicket. At first he thought 
 it might be a red bird and he expected 
 to see it disappear at his approach, but 
 as he neared it the flaming speck still 
 remained motionless. When he came 
 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 up to the bush he was surprised to find 
 a strip of vividly dyed cotton. Taking 
 the bit of cloth from its thorny fastenings, 
 Fray Antonio examined it carefully. In 
 those days signs meant all things, so 
 he slipped it into the pocket of his robe 
 ■and returned to the soldier. Again he 
 assisted the wounded man forward to- 
 ward the church. The brush was so thick 
 that all sight of the Mission had been 
 hidden until they suddenly found them- 
 selves on its outskirts and within a 
 stone's throw of a low stone wall that 
 encircled the grounds of the monastery. 
 
 "At last, my son, the journey is over, " 
 the monk said, pointing to the church, 
 and turning to the soldier, he saw the 
 look of wonder and admiration that 
 had come into his face at sight of it. 
 
 Bathed in the soft light of the fading 
 day the fortress church of San Jos6 de 
 Aguayo rose tall and stately amid its 
 170 
 
Of San Jos6 
 
 verdant growth of orchards and gardens. 
 Sixty years before, its foundation stones 
 had been laid. Its founder was the 
 great Catholic apostle, Fray Don Antonio 
 Margil de Jesus, who died before his 
 great work was completed. Fray Anto- 
 nio had been in the City of Mexico at the 
 time of his funeral and had witnessed 
 the heart-felt sorrow of the people at 
 the loss of their beloved leader. Fray 
 Margil had been likened to Francis of 
 Assisi, the founder of the Franciscan 
 order. Like him, they said, he could 
 tame the wild beasts, and his eloquence 
 was such that it could reach and soften 
 the hearts of the cruelest of savage 
 tribes. 
 
 As the two men stood looking at the 
 Mission, the heart of the monk became 
 filled with sadness and an involuntary 
 sigh escaped his thin, drawn lips. Though 
 
 all looked serene around the church 
 171 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 settlement, how long would it remain 
 so? His troubled fancy seemed to dis- 
 cern a cloud, small and menacing, hov- 
 ering over the peace and quiet of these 
 houses of God. 
 
 It was almost as if prophetically he 
 foresaw the downfall of these Missions, 
 built with the heart's blood of his order. 
 How long would this church of the 
 wilderness call to her the savages of this 
 great xintamed land ? How long would the 
 gardens bloom with fragrance and color, 
 and the fruit-trees thrive and bear? 
 Would its fate be a repetition of that 
 of the San Saba Mission, which twenty- 
 two years before had been destroyed by 
 the savage Comanche, who cruelly put 
 to death all inside its wall? Did not 
 such a fate probably hang over all the 
 Missions ? 
 
 "Ah!" he sighed. "How long, how 
 long?" 
 
 172 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 Then remembering, in the midst of 
 his sad reflections, the mysterious piece 
 of blood-stained cotton, and remembering 
 too that his companion was in sore need 
 of food and care, he started toward the 
 main entrance of the monastery grounds. 
 When they entered, the Indians were 
 slowly filing out of the chapel and filling 
 the great plaza to the right of the church. 
 They stared deliberately at the two, 
 and gazed with wonder in their eyes as 
 had the girl by 
 the arroyo at the 
 fair soldier. 
 
 It was the hour 
 for the evening 
 meal, and when 
 the dust-covered 
 travellers entered 
 the refectory the 
 brothers rose 
 and, after the 
 
 i,^^^^ 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 Abbot's blessing, greeted them affection- 
 ately. 
 
 The Abbot was the first to speak. 
 
 " Thou hast had a long journey, my son, 
 but please the Heavenly Father through 
 His grace thou hast come through it un- 
 harmed to add one more to my pious 
 flock of the wilderness." 
 
 "Yes, Father," the priest answered, 
 and then, remembering the piece of red 
 cotton, he continued: "The greatest dan- 
 ger may lurk at the end of my joiimey, 
 for I found this down by the river in the 
 brush thicket. Its meaning I know 
 not, but it is stained with blood. " As 
 he spoke he held out in his hand the bit 
 of cotton. The movement threw back 
 the loose sleeve of his frock, and while 
 the monks started at its sight the 
 Abbot glanced from the out-stretched 
 hand holding the fateful omen to a 
 deeper-dyed rag that bound the arm of 
 174 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 the friar below the elbow. "While the 
 omen of the dyed cotton you have 
 brought, my son, bespeaks perilous times 
 for us, what meaning has the one of the 
 same color you carry on your arm?" 
 
 Fray Antonio looked down quickly 
 at the wound referred to. "An arrow 
 of an Indian did this, Father. If it had 
 not been for this young soldier, who him- 
 self received the wound in the side in 
 my defence, I would never have been 
 with you to-night. " 
 
 A wave of sympathy swept over the 
 assembled monks, and at the Abbot's 
 orders the boy was taken to one of the 
 cells and tenderly cared for. 
 
 The monks sat down to their inter- 
 rupted meal and Fray Antonio was 
 next the Abbot. "Tell me, my son," 
 said the Abbot, "something of your 
 perilous journey to our resting-place." 
 
 After Fray Antonio had refreshed 
 175 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 himself sufficiently with the meal of 
 game, herbs, and fruit, he told of that 
 trip fraught with so much peril and dan- 
 ger and of the moment when he had 
 thought his journey had ended eternally 
 and the young soldier had appeared to 
 save him. 
 
 "But what of affairs in Spain?" con- 
 tinued the Abbot. 
 
 "So long ago does it seem to me since 
 I left there that the news I can tell you 
 will, I am afraid, be ancient," Fray 
 Antonio answered. The Abbot sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 "It is so seldom that news of any kind 
 reaches us that yours will surely be 
 welcome. ' ' 
 
 Fray Antonio shook his head sadly — 
 "Our mother country Spain is in con- 
 flict with France." 
 
 The Abbot's brow contracted, and he 
 looked out through the windows to the 
 176 
 
Of San Josd 
 
 eastern sky, where lingered a dull reddish 
 glow. 
 
 "And Mexico writhes under Spanish 
 rule. How will it end?" He spoke 
 almost as if to himself. 
 
 "And our Missions, Father?" Fray 
 Antonio asked vehemently. "Our Mis- 
 sions — ^what will become of them? What 
 good will have been accomplished?" 
 
 The Abbot raised his hand warningly. 
 "Hush, my son. Such a question is not 
 fit. The salvation of one unenlightened 
 soul is with the toil of 3^ears and the 
 sacrifice of the many. God's word is 
 never wasted wherever it is preached. " 
 
 For a time there was silence. Then 
 Fray Antonio spoke. 
 
 "Father, tell me something of our 
 Missions and the work of our holy order 
 here in the new world?" 
 
 The Abbot raised his head and looked 
 thoughtfully at the priest. "My son, 
 177 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 the simple question you have asked me 
 to relate is history. This monastery 
 5'ou are now in stands a noble and fitting 
 monument to our 
 Church. It is a mira- 
 cle. To-morrow you 
 will see the results 
 of our labors. There 
 are still many Indian 
 braves who defy — 
 even threaten us. 
 The piece of cotton 
 you brought to us 
 tells its story, but 
 our work has counted 
 for much good even 
 if it has been at- 
 tended Vv'ith death and suffering. " 
 
 "And now, Father, has all this blood- 
 shed and martyrdom effected the civili- 
 zation of this great territory?" 
 The Abbot shook his head. 
 178 
 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 " Things wear a troubled look, my 
 son. While the order of our Church 
 has in a measure fulfilled its mission of 
 civilizing the Indians, Spain is not so 
 successful in the way she treats her 
 colonies." 
 
 At that moment they were interrupted 
 by the sound of a bell calling the monks 
 to prayer. Slowly they filed into the 
 little chapel and soon their voices chant- 
 ing the words of the evening prayers rose 
 in melodious harmony. 
 
 When Fray Antonio and the wounded 
 soldier quitted the brush thicket there 
 were two that followed close on their 
 tracks, but each unaware of the other's 
 presence. 
 
 One was the girl whose eyes had 
 
 marvelled at the pale soldier; the other 
 
 a tall, sinewy Indian, with keen scenting 
 
 nostrils and an eye like that of an eagle, 
 179 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 He was Tichimingo, son of a chief of 
 the Comanches. He had sworn a mighty 
 oath to the great Manitou that no gray- 
 robed, pale-faced priest should ever force 
 him to kneel before the image of another 
 god, and that in time he would drive 
 out the strangers who had come myste- 
 riously in the night from an unknown 
 land and had built their houses of 
 worship in the garden of his wilderness. 
 
 It was he who had placed the dyed 
 cotton on the thorny bush. It was he 
 who had aroused the errant members 
 of his tribe to join with him in the 
 destruction of the Missions. But he 
 would give the monks warning — ample 
 warning. 
 
 The moon hung now in crescent. 
 
 When its corners turned again in the 
 
 sky-world, then it would be time. All 
 
 of a sudden, as he stood there in the 
 
 light, the gleam of hate died out in the 
 1 80 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 Indian's eyes, — one of equal fierceness 
 burned there instead. 
 
 He slipped quickly through the brush. 
 He was almost upon the girl, when she 
 turned, startled, then fled like a frightened 
 deer before him. 
 
 "Run not so fast, Wild Dove of the 
 Woods," he called after her in the 
 language of his race. "What Tichi- 
 mingo desires he pursues, and what he 
 pursues he catches, and Tichimingo 
 desires thee. ' ' 
 
 He laughed triumphantly as he fol- 
 lowed hot upon her trail. 
 
 II 
 
 Now when Fray Antonio had helped 
 up the soldier from the ground, some- 
 thing bright and shining fell unnoticed 
 from the inside pocket of his unfastened 
 jacket. 
 
 That night when the moonbeams 
 
 l8i 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 played and danced with the shadows 
 under the trees the rays fell on the little 
 gold ornament. 
 
 There were other eyes in the woods 
 that night as keen as those of its animal 
 inhabitants, and when these eyes spied 
 the glittering object, two little brown 
 hands closed over it and hid it away. 
 
 From that day Paoli spent her time 
 in the woods near the Mission. Never 
 before had her wild little spirit been 
 filled with such restlessness. She hid 
 in the branches of the trees. She fol- 
 lowed every sound in the brush, every 
 whisper of the wind. 
 
 With each day this restlessness grew 
 more fierce, and the desire to look again 
 upon the fair-haired, blue-eyed stranger 
 became more urgent, more impelling.- 
 She knew that when he got well enough 
 he would come, for did not the^ gold 
 
 trinket she always carried with her 
 182 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 belong to him and would he not want 
 to look for it? That he had been very 
 ill Paoli learned from the Indians at 
 the Mission. 
 
 She decked herself in all her finery of 
 gay beads and feathers so that when he 
 should come, if she chose to let him see 
 her he would find her not unpleasing. 
 
 She had not decided whether she 
 would herself hand him the trinket 
 then or lay it on the ground where he 
 could find it. For six days she waited 
 and he did not come. For 
 six days she watched, but 
 her vigil was unrewarded. 
 There was one, however, 
 she did see. It was Tichi- 
 mingo. When he was not 
 hunting his game he was 
 hunting her. 
 
 ''Little Wild Dove of the 
 Wood," he would say to 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 her, "before many moons you will 
 flutter into the arms of Tichimingo 
 and there you will find shelter and 
 protection." 
 
 When Paoli shook her head and looked 
 at him angrily out of her great dark 
 eyes, he would only laugh the louder. 
 
 "You will love me, little Paoli. You 
 will love me much. It is always so 
 with the things that fight the bravest 
 against capture. But Tichimingo can 
 wait. There is first something he must 
 do, something he has sworn to do, and 
 after that" — ^he held out his arms and 
 moved nearer Paoli; but the girl was 
 gone and only the crackling of the 
 dried twigs told which path she had 
 taken. 
 
 One day, when noon lay hot on the 
 
 unsheltered prairies, Paoli curled herself 
 
 in a cool shadow under a moss-covered 
 
 oak and fell asleep. 
 184 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 When she awoke it was not Tichimingo 
 that was leaning close over her with a 
 hungry light in his fierce eyes,^it was 
 the boy soldier. 
 
 With the grace and quickness of a 
 startled animal Paoli sprang to her feet, 
 and for a second made as if to run; then 
 she slipped her hand under her tunic 
 and drew out the gold locket and held it 
 out to the man. 
 
 With an exclamation of surprise and 
 delight he took it from her, examined 
 it a moment, pressed something, and it 
 opened like a book and he put it to his 
 lips and held it there a moment. 
 
 Paoli stood gazing in astonishment. 
 She had often looked at and handled 
 the little flat gold ornament, but it had 
 never opened for her. Why did he 
 kiss it, she wondered. It must be a 
 relic from the church, she thought. 
 He slipped it back into the pocket of 
 185 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 his coat. "Thank you," he said to the 
 girl in Spanish. 
 
 "I was afraid I had lost it far from 
 here, at the time the arrow struck me 
 and Fray Antonio unfastened my coat. " 
 
 Speaking of this made him think of 
 the Indian who had shot that arrow, 
 and he looked at the girl with a new 
 light in his blue eyes. She noted it at 
 once. 
 
 "So it was one of my people who 
 wounded you?" 
 
 Paoli's Spanish was very bad, but it 
 could be understood. 
 
 "Yes, I have one of them to thank 
 for that," he said reflectively. 
 
 "And what have we got to thank 
 your people for?" she flashed back at 
 him quickly. "I hate your pale-faced 
 fathers in the Mission ' ' — her eyes snapped 
 with anger. "They want to make one 
 work, work all the time with no play, 
 
 i86 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 and they are making women of our 
 braves." There was deep scorn in her 
 voice. "But there is one they cannot 
 bend to their ways. ' ' 
 
 PaoH smiled triumphantly, and had 
 Tichimingo seen it and known she had 
 spoken in defence of him, his heart would 
 have warmed happily under her praise. 
 
 The soldier was looking at the girl 
 with wonder and admiration. 
 
 "I am too weak to stand long," he 
 said. "Will you sit and talk with me 
 a little?" 
 
 This daughter of the Comanche was 
 very beautiful and the man felt loath to 
 let her go. 
 
 They seated themselves on the soft 
 moss-covered earth. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked. 
 
 "Paoli, " she answered. 
 
 He looked at her with an added inter- 
 est— "Wild Dove of the Woods. " 
 187 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 "How did you know?" And she 
 turned her great fawn-like eyes full 
 upon him. 
 
 "I have heard them speak of you at 
 the Mission," he answered. "But they 
 seem to think you are far away from 
 here." 
 
 "It is well they think so," the girl 
 said with a little savage tone in her 
 voice. 
 
 "Why?" asked the man. 
 
 "They were not good to me," and 
 the look of hate — ^the hate an Indian 
 can alone feel — still marred her pretty 
 face. 
 
 "What did they do to you?" he asked. 
 
 "They gave me a penance that I could 
 not perform." The little lips set them- 
 selves together. 
 
 "And it was for this that you refused 
 to go again to the Mission church and 
 went back to the tribe?" 
 
 i8S 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 "Yes — ^was I not right?" she asked 
 vehemently. "They wanted to take 
 away my hours of recreation and not let 
 tne go to the woods. Why, they even 
 locked me in, but they could not keep 
 me that way. One morning they found 
 me gone. I have never been inside the 
 Mission since." 
 
 "Then why are you here now?" the 
 man asked suspiciously. 
 
 The Indian girl's eyes dilated and she 
 took a deep breath through her slender 
 nostrils, and her voice sank to a lower 
 note. 
 
 "Because I wanted to be near where 
 
 I could smell again the incense they 
 
 bum in the chapel, and because I wanted 
 
 to look once more on the beautiful 
 
 image of the Virgin dressed in silk and 
 
 jewels that stands on the altar. I 
 
 thought perhaps some night when they 
 
 were all asleep in the Mission I could go 
 189 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 to the chapel without their seeing 
 me." 
 
 In this speech PaoH had divulged the 
 secret of the influence of the father 
 over the Indian. 
 
 "What is your name?" the girl asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Juan Delgado is my name," he said. 
 
 " You are a soldier ? " 
 
 "Yes, of Spain." 
 
 The girl looked at him from under 
 her heavy lashes. 
 
 "Why did you come?" 
 
 "I am going to San Antonio to join 
 my company," he answered. 
 
 "Soon?" 
 
 "I cannot tell. When my wound is 
 healed. The fathers will not let me 
 leave sooner. " 
 
 The bell of the Mission clanged out 
 the hour of the mid-day meal, and the 
 man arose. 
 
 igo 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 "Are you in the woods often?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Almost all the time. " 
 
 "Will you be here to-morrow at 
 the noon hour ? ' ' The girl did not speak. 
 
 The man repeated his question. Finally 
 she answered: 
 
 ' ' I cannot tell ' ' — she had the suspicion 
 of her race. 
 
 "If I come will you be here?" he 
 asked persuasively. And again Paoli 
 answered: 
 
 "I cannot tell." 
 
 ' ' But I will come an3Avay, ' ' the man 
 said, "and if you are not here I shall be 
 disappointed. ' ' 
 
 This time Paoli said nothing, but 
 stood looking at him with an expression 
 in her eyes which was difficult to under- 
 stand. 
 
 The soldier turned and walked back 
 to the Mission. 
 
 igi 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 III 
 
 Juan Delgado was in the woods at the 
 noon hour the next day and many days 
 following. Paoli was there too. They 
 talked long together. The girl told him 
 of the habits and customs of her tribe, 
 and all the while he watched her with a 
 growing interest. 
 
 He delighted to look at the changing 
 expressions in the brown mobile face — 
 to search to their depths the great dark 
 eyes. He loved to watch the sun lose 
 itseH in the shadows of the black, lus- 
 trous hair. It thrilled him to note the 
 soft, graceful undulations of the lithe, 
 slender body untrammelled in its loose 
 free dress. The little feet in the beaded 
 moccasins he longed to take and press 
 tightly in the palms of his hands. His 
 Castilian blood ran hot and this Indian 
 girl had stirred it into fire. 
 
 ig2 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 One day when they had been talking 
 together Juan said something which 
 angered the girl. It was an allusion to 
 her race. Quick as a flash she had 
 risen and left him. He called after her 
 many, times, but Paolididnot comeback. 
 
 The following day he came as usual, 
 and a look of glad surprise flashed into 
 his face at sight of her standing waiting 
 for him. 
 
 "See what I have brought you, Paoli, 
 from the Mission garden. ' ' 
 He held in his hand a red 
 rose. " It is my peace offer- 
 ing, little Wild Dove of the 
 Woods . ' ' Her eyes lighted 
 with pleasure. 
 
 ' ' It came from the great 
 bush in the corner of the 
 garden," she said. "The 
 Indians call it the Rose of 
 San Jos^. " 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 He fastened the rose in one of the 
 black braids just back of the little shell- 
 like ear. In doing so his hand brushed 
 very near the smooth round cheek, and 
 Juan Delgado found himself fighting 
 against a temptation that with each 
 day grew more difficult of control. 
 
 "I shall keep it always — always," 
 the girl said softly, putting up her hand 
 and touching gently the fresh petals. 
 "Unless," she added, looking up at 
 him thoughtfully, "unless it ever hap- 
 pens I should have to send you a peace 
 offering. If I did I would return to 
 you the rose." Her eyes filled with a 
 warm tenderness. "It would be a sad 
 and faded little rose, but it would be 
 like my heart if — if I ever hurt you. ' ' 
 
 Juan Delgado took both her little 
 brown hands in his. A wave of color 
 swept over Paoli's face and neck. She 
 was looking down at the ground. 
 
 194 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 "Look at me, Paoli. " She raised her 
 head slowly and looked at him. Juan 
 Delgado started at what he saw written 
 in the girl's face; his heart beat wildly, 
 but he released her hands and turned 
 away. 
 
 They were silent for some time. It 
 was then that there was a noise ever so 
 slight in the bush. The man did not 
 even hear it, but the girl's quick trained 
 ear detected it in an instant and she 
 thought of Tichimingo. 
 
 IV 
 
 Heretofore it was only in the late 
 evening and the night-time that he came, 
 but then Tichimingo was cunning and 
 one could not tell when he would come 
 or go. 
 
 When Juan Delgado left her, Paoli 
 searched through the woods along the 
 195 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 stream for Tichimingo. She wanted to 
 make sure. 
 
 She had almost given up the search 
 when suddenly she came close upon him, 
 bending over something on the ground. 
 She stood hardly daring to breathe, and 
 watched. She saw the Indian unsheath 
 his knife and cut close to the heart of a 
 young lynx he had taken from his pack 
 of game. As the fresh blood spurted 
 out of the wound he took a piece of 
 cotton cloth and dipped it into the red 
 fluid so that it took the color, and then 
 he fastened it to a thorn bush. 
 
 At sight of this a great fear stole over 
 Paoli and she understood for the first 
 time the meaning of his words to her 
 that day, — ^when he had said there was 
 something he had sworn to do. 
 
 The next moment she was by his 
 side. It was savage facing savage and 
 the look in their eyes was not good to 
 
 ig5 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 see. At his first sight of her the girl 
 knew that she had not been mistaken 
 in the sound in the bush — and she had 
 not, for Tichimingo had crawled like a 
 snake on the ground, dragging his brown 
 body through the grass and underbrush 
 until he had come quite close to the man 
 and the girl. He had not understood 
 the language of their lips, but an Indian 
 reads things by signs and all the venom 
 and hatred of his race rose at sight of 
 these two together. 
 
 It is very probable that then and there 
 he would have killed the soldier, but in 
 two days' time a sweet revenge would 
 come to him. When the Mission was 
 taken, the torture he had planned for 
 its inmates would include the soldier 
 as well. 
 
 "It is the Mission you are going 
 to destroy and the padres?" Paoli 
 said, through her little white teeth. 
 197 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 Tichimingo grunted sullenly and nodded. 
 
 "When?" the girl asked, and her 
 little brown face went white of a sudden. 
 It is the Indian's nature to answer when 
 and as he pleases. But the Indian in 
 the girl forced from the man a response. 
 
 "When the moon hangs in its first 
 quarter. ' ' 
 
 "Two days more, " the girl said slowly, 
 as though the words hurt her. 
 
 "And the soldier will be left for me 
 to kill." 
 
 Tichimingo made a step toward the 
 girl and grunted so fiendishly that even 
 she, accustomed as she was to the 
 cruelty of her people, shrank away from 
 him. 
 
 "I saw him look into your eyes to-day 
 in a way no man shall ever look at you 
 and live — and you, who are to belong to 
 me, answered that look. " 
 
 Paoli raised her head and stared at 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 him a moment in defiance. She would 
 have said something, but the man sprang 
 at her viciously, the knife with which 
 he had stabbed the wildcat still clasped 
 in his hand, and the girl turned and ran 
 from him. 
 
 Even so Tichimingo would have over- 
 taken her, but his foot caught in the 
 root of a shrub and he fell. Only a 
 second was he delayed, but it was enough 
 for the girl to escape beyond his reach, 
 and the nearest he got to her that night 
 was to hear the echo of a wood dove's 
 cry, the sound of which lashed him to 
 a fury. 
 
 V 
 
 "How soon will your wound be 
 
 healed?" Paoli asked with terror and 
 
 anxiety in her voice, that she could not 
 
 control. She leaned anxiously toward 
 
 Juan Delgado, waiting for his answer. 
 199 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 Short as the time was, in her great im- 
 patience it seemed too long in coming. • 
 
 "Will it be before — ^before the next 
 new moon?" She leaned closer still. 
 The man looked at her surprised. 
 
 "When is the time for the next new 
 moon?" he answered, failing to com- 
 prehend the reason for her anxiety, 
 "and what has that got to do with my 
 going away?" 
 
 "I only wanted to know how much 
 longer you would be here," she said, 
 smiling so as to disarm his probable 
 suspicion. An Indian always gauges the 
 length of time by the moon. "You 
 know the new moon will be in its first 
 quarter in two days. " 
 
 "Yes, I will be here until after that. 
 I will be here until a danger that threat- 
 ens the Mission is passed, Paoli, and we 
 will see each other every day, will we 
 not, Wild Dove of the Woods?" 
 
Of San Josd 
 
 The girl did not answer, but gave a 
 little gasp as if in pain, and said some- 
 thing the man could not understand. 
 
 Suddenly she leaned over and placed 
 her hand on his arm. "You must go 
 from the Mission," she said. "You 
 must go before two days, before the 
 moon turns its first quarter. " 
 
 ' ' Why ? ' ' the man asked in real alarm. 
 
 ' ' The danger that threatens the Mission 
 draws near," the girl said excitedly. 
 "When it comes you must not be there. " 
 
 "It is my duty to be there, Paoli — a 
 soldier never runs from danger." But 
 the girl clasped her little hands together 
 in a gesture of agony. 
 
 "It would kill me to have anything 
 happen to you." 
 
 That night Paoli sought Tichimingo. 
 He was sullen and savage and it was a 
 a long time before he would listen or 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 speak to her. But he loved her, and 
 Paoli was a woman that a man who 
 was not her lover could not set aside. 
 
 " Tichimingo, " she said to him softly, 
 and she looked up into his face in a way 
 he had never seen her look before. It 
 set his blood on fire. 
 
 "Tichimingo, if I promise to marry 
 you in the first quarter of the moon 
 will you leave the Mission and the 
 fathers in peace?" 
 
 He grunted, but it was a weak and 
 un-Indian-like grunt, and his eyes showed 
 how strong was the temptation. She 
 repeated the request, and as she did so 
 her soft young body crept nearer until 
 he could feel the warm life of it next his 
 own. His mask of Indian savagery fell 
 from his face and his eyes were filled 
 with a human passion, intense and 
 entreating. 
 
 ' ' In the first quarter of the moon, you 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 said, little Wild Dove of the Woods? 
 Then the Mission shall stand and the 
 fathers go unharmed. " 
 
 That night Paoli did not fly before 
 Tichimingo. When he ptirused she waited. 
 In the darkness that conies before the 
 dawn they turned their faces from the 
 Mission toward the haunts of their tribe. 
 
 In the face of Tichimingo the brave 
 there shone a look of triumph such as 
 had never before been there, but the 
 Wild Dove of the Woods walked deject- 
 edly. Her little wings and her heart were 
 broken. 
 
 That evening when Fray Antonio went 
 
 down to the stream he looked anxiously 
 
 into the thicket. As usual there was 
 
 something red attached to the bush. 
 
 He went up to it. 
 
 "Ave Maria! Mother of God!" The 
 203 
 
The Red Rose 
 
 exclamation burst from his lips. What 
 did this signify? He hurried back to 
 the Mission and into the presence of 
 the Abbot and brothers gathered for 
 the evening meal. The anxious monks 
 gathered around him. 
 
 "The signal, Fray Antonio," they 
 cried in chorus. 
 
 "It is here." And Fray Antonio 
 
 held in the palm of his hand a red rose — 
 
 a Rose of San Jos^. 
 
 It lay withered and 
 
 limp. 
 
 Juan Delgado, who 
 was with the monks, 
 started and turned 
 pale. Something 
 tightened about his 
 heart and choked in 
 his throat. He took 
 the rose from the 
 monk's hand. 
 
Of San Jose 
 
 "It is all well for the Mission. The 
 signal is one of peace. " 
 
 The monks looked at him suspiciously 
 and wonderingly. He answered the ques- 
 tion in their eyes. 
 
 "The Indian girl Paoli, the one they 
 call Wild Dove of the Woods, whom I 
 met, told me if it was to be peace the 
 offering would be a rose — a red rose — 
 a Rose of San Jos6. " 
 
 He looked at the withered, faded 
 little flower. Only he understood that 
 its meaning was a sad heart as well. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 205 
 
A Stirring and Captivating Story 
 
 THE GIRL OF 
 LA GLORIA 
 
 By 
 
 CLARA DRISCOLL 
 
 With Illustrations in Color by 
 HUGH DITZLER 
 
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 A charming love-story of Texas. The heroine, 
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 tiful descendant of the early Spanish conquerors. 
 There are fascinating descriptions of the rough, 
 romantic life of the plains, when men were quick 
 with their love and quicker with their hate. 
 The story moves rapidly, with strong, thrilling 
 scenes, and the reader's interest is held to the 
 dramatic close. 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 New York London 
 
"A romance to stir the pulse."— iV. V. Telegram. 
 
 No. 101 
 
 By 
 
 Wymond Carey 
 
 AutHor of " Monsie-ur Martin," etc. 
 
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 the reader will fall in love with them — Yvonne of the 
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 " An exciting story, full of action, mystery, love, and 
 passion, and the glitter of a fascinating court." 
 
 Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 Illustrated by Wal Paget. Crown octavo, $1.50 
 
 Q. P. PUTNAM'5 50NS 
 
 New York London 
 
" Every page of this story is replete with fascination. 
 It is an amazing and impressive book." 
 
 Philadelphia Item. 
 
 All That Was Possible 
 
 By 
 
 Howard Overing Sturgis 
 
 Author of " Belchamber," etc. 
 
 Mr. Sturgis has written another striking novel. It 
 treats with delicacy and reserve a situation hard to 
 handle without some disregard of merely conventional 
 proprieties. 
 
 "It is impossible to put the book down without a 
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 N. Y. Tribune. 
 
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 "An exceptionally good book, wholesome and re- 
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 With colored frontispiece by Frederick 
 Simpson Coburn, Crown octavo, $1,50 
 
 Q. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK LONDON 
 
Bound to excite a great deal of favorable comment 
 
 A. Lost Cause 
 
 By 
 
 Guy THorne 
 
 AutHor of ""WKen It "Was DarK." 
 
 Cro-wn Octavo - - - $1.50 
 
 Mr. Thorne, the author of that much-discussed re- 
 ligious novel, W/ien It Was Dark, which has become 
 the theme of hundreds of sermons, and has received 
 the highest commendation in the secular press as 
 well as in the religious publications, has written 
 another powerful book which also deals with present- 
 day aspects of the Christian religion. The new story 
 is marked by the same dramatic and emotional 
 strength which characterized his earlier work. The 
 special theme deals with certain practices which have 
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 duct. Written in all sincerity, the book can hardly 
 fail to arouse wide and varied attention and is 
 destined to take its place as one of the most interest- 
 comoelling works of fiction in recent years. 
 
 New York— Q. P. Putnam's Sons— Londop