The Riding of Felipe
I. FELIPEAs young Felipe Arillaga guided his pony out of the last intricacies ofPacheco Pass, he was thinking of Rubia Ytuerate and of the scene he hadhad with her a few days before. He reconstructed it now very vividly.Rubia had been royally angry, and as she had stood before him, her armsfolded and her teeth set, he was forced to admit that she was ashandsome a woman as could be found through all California.There had been a time, three months past, when Felipe found nocompulsion in the admission, for though betrothed to Buelna Martiarenahe had abruptly conceived a violent infatuation for Rubia, and hadremained a guest upon her rancho many weeks longer than he had intended.For three months he had forgotten Buelna entirely. At the end of thattime he had remembered her--had awakened to the fact that hisinfatuation for Rubia was infatuation, and had resolved to end theaffair and go back to Buelna as soon as it was possible.But Rubia was quick to notice the cooling of his passion. First shefixed him with oblique suspicion from under her long lashes, thenavoided him, then kept him at her side for days together. Then atlast--his defection unmistakable--turned on him with furious demands forthe truth.Felipe had snatched occasion with one hand and courage with the other."Well," he had said, "well, it is not my fault. Yes, it is the truth. Itis played out."He had not thought it necessary to speak of Buelna; but Rubia divinedthe other woman."So you think you are to throw me aside like that. Ah, it is played out,is it, Felipe Arillaga? You listen to me. Do not fancy for one momentyou are going back to an old love, or on to a new one. You listen tome," she had cried, her fist over her head. "I do not know who she is,but my curse is on her, Felipe Arillaga. My curse is on her who nextkisses you. May that kiss be a blight to her. From that moment may evilcling to her, bad luck follow her; may she love and not be loved; mayfriends desert her, enemies beset her, her sisters shame her, herbrothers disown her, and those whom she has loved abandon her. May herbody waste as your love for me has wasted; may her heart be broken asyour promises to me have been broken; may her joy be as fleeting as yourvows, and her beauty grow as dim as your memory of me. I have said it.""So be it!" Felipe had retorted with vast nonchalance, and had flung outfrom her presence to saddle his pony and start back to Buelna.But Felipe was superstitious. He half believed in curses, had seentwo-headed calves born because of them, and sheep stampeded over cliffsfor no other reason.Now, as he drew out of Pacheco Pass and came down into the valley theidea of Rubia and her curse troubled him. At first, when yet three days'journey from Buelna, it had been easy to resolve to brave it out. Butnow he was already on the Rancho Martiarena (had been traveling over itfor the last ten hours, in fact), and in a short time would be at thehacienda of Martiarena, uncle and guardian of Buelna. He would seeBuelna, and she, believing always in his fidelity, would expect to kisshim."Well, this is to be thought about," murmured Felipe uneasily. Hetouched up the pony with one of his enormous spurs."Now I know what I will do," he thought. "I will go to San Juan Bautistaand confess and be absolved, and will buy candles. Then afterward willgo to Buelna."He found the road that led to the Mission and turned into it, pushingforward at a canter. Then suddenly at a sharp turning reined up just intime to avoid colliding with a little cavalcade.He uttered an exclamation under his breath.At the head of the cavalcade rode old Martiarena himself, and behind himcame a peon or two, then Manuela, the aged housekeeper and--after afashion--duenna. Then at her side, on a saddle of red leather withsilver bosses, which was cinched about the body of a very small whiteburro, Buelna herself.She was just turned sixteen, and being of the best blood of the motherkingdom (the strain dating back to the Ostrogothic invasion), was fair.Her hair was blond, her eyes blue-gray, her eyebrows and lashes darkbrown, and as he caught sight of her Felipe wondered how he ever couldhave believed the swarthy Rubia beautiful.There was a jubilant meeting. Old Martiarena kissed both his cheeks,patting him on the back."Oh, ho!" he cried. "Once more back. We have just returned from thefeast of the Santa Cruz at the Mission, and Buelna prayed for your safereturn. Go to her, boy. She has waited long for this hour."Felipe, his eyes upon those of his betrothed, advanced. She was lookingat him and smiling. As he saw the unmistakable light in her blue eyes,the light he knew she had kept burning for him alone, Felipe could haveabased himself to the very hoofs of her burro. Could it be possible hehad ever forgotten her for such a one as Rubia--have been unfaithful tothis dear girl for so much as the smallest fraction of a minute?"You are welcome, Felipe," she said. "Oh, very, very welcome." She gavehim her hand and turned her face to his. But it was her hand and not herface the young man kissed. Old Martiarena, who looked on, shook withlaughter."Hoh! a timid lover this," he called. "We managed different when I was alad. Her lips, Felipe. Must an old man teach a youngster gallantry?"Buelna blushed and laughed, but yet did not withdraw her hand nor turnher face away.There was a delicate expectancy in her manner that she neverthelesscontrived to make compatible with her native modesty. Felipe had beenher acknowledged lover ever since the two were children."Well?" cried Martiarena as Felipe hesitated.Even then, if Felipe could have collected his wits, he might have savedthe situation for himself. But no time had been allowed him to think.Confusion seized upon him. All that was clear in his mind were the lastwords of Rubia. It seemed to him that between his lips he carried apoison deadly to Buelna above all others. Stupidly, brutally heprecipitated the catastrophe."No," he exclaimed seriously, abruptly drawing his hand from Buelna's,"no. It may not be. I cannot."Martiarena stared. Then:"Is this a jest, senor?" he demanded. "An ill-timed one, then.""No," answered Felipe, "it is not a jest.""But, Felipe," murmured Buelna. "But--why--I do not understand.""I think I begin to," cried Martiarena. "Senor, you do not," protestedFelipe. "It is not to be explained. I know what you believe. On myhonour, I love Buelna.""Your actions give you the lie, then, young man. Bah! Nonsense. Whatfool's play is all this? Kiss him, Buelna, and have done with it."Felipe gnawed his nails."Believe me, oh, believe me, Senor Martiarena, it must not be.""Then an explanation."For a moment Felipe hesitated. But how could he tell them the truth--thetruth that involved Rubia and his disloyalty, temporary though that was.They could neither understand nor forgive. Here, indeed, was animpasse. One thing only was to be said, and he said it. "I can giveyou no explanation," he murmured.But Buelna suddenly interposed."Oh, please," she said, pushing by Felipe, "uncle, we have talked toolong. Please let us go. There is only one explanation. Is it not enoughalready?""By God, it is not!" vociferated the old man, turning upon Felipe. "Tellme what it means. Tell me what this means.""I cannot.""Then I will tell you!" shouted the old fellow in Felipe's face. "Itmeans that you are a liar and a rascal. That you have played withBuelna, and that you have deceived me, who have trusted you as a fatherwould have trusted a son. I forbid you to answer me. For the sake ofwhat you were I spare you now. But this I will do. Off of my rancho!" hecried. "Off my rancho, and in the future pray your God, or the devil, towhom you are sold, to keep you far from me.""You do not understand, you do not understand," pleaded Felipe, thetears starting to his eyes. "Oh, believe me, I speak the truth. I loveyour niece. I love Buelna. Oh, never so truly, never so devoutly asnow. Let me speak to her; she will believe me."But Buelna, weeping, had ridden on.
II. UNZARA fortnight passed. Soon a month had gone by. Felipe gloomed about hisrancho, solitary, taciturn, siding the sheep-walks and cattle-ranges fordays and nights together, refusing all intercourse with his friends. Itseemed as if he had lost Buelna for good and all. At times, as thecertainty of this defined itself more clearly, Felipe would fling hishat upon the ground, beat his breast, and then, prone upon his face, hishead buried in his folded arms, would lie for hours motionless, whilehis pony nibbled the sparse alfalfa, and the jack-rabbits limping fromthe sage peered at him, their noses wrinkling.But about a month after the meeting and parting with Buelna, word wentthrough all the ranches that a hide-roger had cast anchor in MontereyBay. At once an abrupt access of activity seized upon the rancheros.Rodeos were held, sheep slaughtered, and the great tallow-pits began tofill up.Felipe was not behind his neighbours, and, his tallow once in hand, sentit down to Monterey, and himself rode down to see about disposing of it.On his return he stopped at the wine shop of one Lopez Catala, on theroad between Monterey and his rancho.It was late afternoon when he reached it, and the wine shop wasdeserted. Outside, the California August lay withering and suffocatingover all the land. The far hills were burnt to dry, hay-like grass andbrittle clods. The eucalyptus trees in front of the wine shop (the firsttrees Felipe had seen all that day) were coated with dust. The plains ofsagebrush and the alkali flats shimmered and exhaled pallid mirages,glistening like inland seas. Over all blew the trade-wind; prolonged,insistent, harassing, swooping up the red dust of the road and the whitepowder of the alkali beds, and flinging it--white-and-red banners in asky of burnt-out blue--here and there about the landscape.The wine shop, which was also an inn, was isolated, lonely, but it wascomfortable, and Felipe decided to lay over there that night, then inthe morning reach his rancho by an easy stage.He had his supper--an omelet, cheese, tortillas, and a glass ofwine--and afterward sat outside on a bench smoking innumerablecigarettes and watching the sun set.While he sat so a young man of about his own age rode up from theeastward with a great flourish, and giving over his horse to themuchacho, entered the wine shop and ordered dinner and a room for thenight. Afterward he came out and stood in front of the inn and watchedthe muchacho cleaning his horse.Felipe, looking at him, saw that he was of his own age and about his ownbuild--that is to say, twenty-eight or thirty, and tall and lean. But inother respects the difference was great. The stranger was flamboyantlydressed: skin-tight pantaloons, fastened all up and down the leg withround silver buttons; yellow boots with heels high as a girl's, set offwith silver spurs; a very short coat faced with galloons of gold, and avery broad-brimmed and very high-crowned sombrero, on which the silverbraid alone was worth the price of a good horse. Even for a SpanishMexican his face was dark. Swart it was, the cheeks hollow; a tiny,tight mustache with ends truculently pointed and erect helped out thebelligerency of the tight-shut lips. The eyes were black as bitumen, andflashed continually under heavy brows."Perhaps," thought Felipe, "he is a toreador from Mexico."The stranger followed his horse to the barn, but, returning in a fewmoments, stood before Felipe and said:"Senor, I have taken the liberty to put my horse in the stall occupiedby yours. Your beast the muchacho turned into the corrale. Mine isan animal of spirit, and in a corrale would fight with the otherhorses. I rely upon the senor's indulgence."At ordinary times he would not have relied in vain. But Felipe's nerveswere in a jangle these days, and his temper, since Buelna's dismissal ofhim, was bitter. His perception of offense was keen. He rose, his eyesupon the stranger's eyes."My horse is mine," he observed. "Only my friends permit themselvesliberties with what is mine."The other smiled scornfully and drew from his belt a little pouch ofgold dust."What I take I pay for," he remarked, and, still smiling, tenderedFelipe a few grains of the gold.Felipe struck the outstretched palm."Am I a peon?" he vociferated."Probably," retorted the other."I will take pay for that word," cried Felipe, his face blazing, "butnot in your money, senor.""In that case I may give you more than you ask.""No, by God, for I shall take all you have."But the other checked his retort. A sudden change came over him."I ask the senor's pardon," he said, with grave earnestness, "forprovoking him. You may not fight with me nor I with you. I speak thetruth. I have made oath not to fight till I have killed one whom now Iseek.""Very well; I, too, spoke without reflection. You seek an enemy, then,senor?""My sister's, who is therefore mine. An enemy truly. Listen, you shalljudge. I am absent from my home a year, and when I return what do Ifind? My sister betrayed, deceived, flouted by a fellow, a nobody, whomshe received a guest in her house, a fit return for kindness, forhospitality! Well, he answers to me for the dishonour.""Wait. Stop!" interposed Felipe. "Your name, senor.""Unzar Ytuerate, and my enemy is called Arillaga. Him I seek and----""Then you shall seek no farther!" shouted Felipe. "It is to RubiaYtuerate, your sister, whom I owe all my unhappiness, all my suffering.She has hurt not me only, but one--but----Mother of God, we wastewords!" he cried. "Knife to knife, Unzar Ytuerate. I am Felipe Arillaga,and may God be thanked for the chance that brings this quarrel to myhand.""You! You!" gasped Unzar. Fury choked him; his hands clutched andunclutched--now fists, now claws. His teeth grated sharply while aquivering sensation as of a chill crisped his flesh. "Then the soonerthe better," he muttered between his set teeth, and the knives flashedin the hands of the two men so suddenly that the gleam of one seemedonly the reflection of the other.Unzar held out his left wrist."Are you willing?" he demanded, with a significant glance."And ready," returned the other, baring his forearm.Catala, keeper of the inn, was called."Love of the Virgin, not here, senors. My house--the alcalde--""You have a strap there." Unzar pointed to a bridle hanging from a pegby the doorway. "No words; quick; do as you are told."The two men held out their left arms till wrist touched wrist, andCatala, trembling and protesting, lashed them together with a strap."Tighter," commanded Felipe; "put all your strength to it."The strap was drawn up to another hole."Now, Catala, stand back," commanded Unzar, "and count three slowly. Atthe word 'three,' Senor Arillaga, we begin. You understand.""I understand.""Ready.... Count.""One."Felipe and Unzar each put his right hand grasping the knife behind hisback as etiquette demanded."Two."They strained back from each other, the full length of their left arms,till the nails grew bloodless."Three!" called Lopez Catala in a shaking voice.
III. RUBIAWhen Felipe regained consciousness he found that he lay in an upperchamber of Catala's inn upon a bed. His shoulder, the right one, wasbandaged, and so was his head. He felt no pain, only a little weak, butthere was a comfortable sense of brandy at his lips, an arm supportedhis head, and the voice of Rubia Ytuerate spoke his name. He sat up on asudden."Rubia, you!" he cried. "What is it? What happened? Oh, I remember,Unzar--we fought. Oh, my God, how we fought! But you----What brought youhere?""Thank Heaven," she murmured, "you are better. You are not so badlywounded. As he fell he must have dragged you with him, and your headstruck the threshold of the doorway.""Is he badly hurt? Will he recover?""I hope so. But you are safe.""But what brought you here?""Love," she cried; "my love for you. What I suffered after you had gone!Felipe, I have fought, too. Pride was strong at first, and it was pridethat made me send Unzar after you. I told him what had happened. Ihounded him to hunt you down. Then when he had gone my battle began. Ah,dearest, dearest, it all came back, our days together, the life we led,knowing no other word but love, thinking no thoughts that were not ofeach other. And love conquered. Unzar was not a week gone before Ifollowed him--to call him back, to shield you, to save you from hisfury. I came all but too late, and found you both half dead. My brotherand my lover, your body across his, your blood mingling with his own.But not too late to love you back to life again. Your life is mine now,Felipe. I love you, I love you." She clasped her hands together andpressed them to her cheek. "Ah, if you knew," she cried; "if you couldonly look into my heart. Pride is nothing; good name is nothing; friendsare nothing. Oh, it is a glory to give them all for love, to give upeverything; to surrender, to submit, to cry to one's heart: 'Take me; Iam as wax. Take me; conquer me; lead me wherever you will. All is welllost so only that love remains.' And I have heard all that hashappened--this other one, the Senorita Buelna, how that she for bade youher lands. Let her go; she is not worthy of your love, cold,selfish----""Stop!" cried Felipe, "you shall say no more evil of her. It is enough.""Felipe, you love her yet?""And always, always will.""She who has cast you off; she who disdains you, who will not suffer youon her lands? And have you come to be so low, so base and mean as that?""I have sunk no lower than a woman who could follow after a lover whohad grown manifestly cold.""Ah," she answered sadly, "if I could so forget my pride as to followyou, do not think your reproaches can touch me now." Then suddenly shesank at the bedside and clasped his hand in both of hers. Her beautifulhair, unbound, tumbled about her shoulders; her eyes, swimming withtears, were turned up to his; her lips trembled with the intensity ofher passion. In a voice low, husky, sweet as a dove's, she addressedhim. "Oh, dearest, come back to me; come back to me. Let me love youagain. Don't you see my heart is breaking? There is only you in all theworld for me. I was a proud woman once. See now what I have broughtmyself to. Don't let it all be in vain. If you fail me now, think how itwill be for me afterward--to know that I--I, Rubia Ytuerate, have beggedthe love of a man and begged in vain. Do you think I could live knowingthat?" Abruptly she lost control of herself. She caught him about theneck with both her arms. Almost incoherently her words rushed from hertight-shut teeth."Ah, I can make you love me. I can make you love me," she cried. "Youshall come back to me. You are mine, and you cannot help but come back.""Por Dios, Rubia," he ejaculated, "remember yourself. You are out ofyour head.""Come back to me; love me.""No, no.""Come back to me.""No.""You cannot push me from you," she cried, for, one hand upon hershoulder, he had sought to disengage himself. "No, I shall not let yougo. You shall not push me from you! Thrust me off and I will embrace youall the closer. Yes, strike me if you will, and I will kiss you."And with the words she suddenly pressed her lips to his.Abruptly Felipe freed himself. A new thought suddenly leaped to hisbrain."Let your own curse return upon you," he cried. "You yourself have freedme; you yourself have broken the barrier you raised between me and mybetrothed. You cursed her whose lips should next touch mine, and you arepoisoned with your own venom."He sprang from off the bed, and catching up his serape, flung it abouthis shoulders."Felipe," she cried, "Felipe, where are you going?""Back to Buelna," he shouted, and with the words rushed from the room.Her strength seemed suddenly to leave her. She sank lower to the floor,burying her face deep upon the pillows that yet retained the impress ofhim she loved so deeply, so recklessly.Footsteps in the passage and a knocking at the door aroused her. Awoman, one of the escort who had accompanied her, entered hurriedly."Senorita," cried this one, "your brother, the Senor Unzar, he isdying."Rubia hurried to an adjoining room, where upon a mattress on the floorlay her brother."Put that woman out," he gasped as his glance met hers. "I never sentfor her," he went on. "You are no longer sister of mine. It was you whodrove me to this quarrel, and when I have vindicated you what do you do?Your brother you leave to be tended by hirelings, while all your thoughtand care are lavished on your paramour. Go back to him. I know how todie alone, but as you go remember that in dying I hated and disownedyou."He fell back upon the pillows, livid, dead.Rubia started forward with a cry."It is you who have killed him," cried the woman who had summoned her.The rest of Rubia's escort, vaqueros, peons, and the old alcaldeof her native village, stood about with bared heads."That is true. That is true," they murmured. The old alcalde steppedforward."Who dishonours my friend dishonours me," he said. "From this day,Senorita Ytuerate, you and I are strangers." He went out, and one byone, with sullen looks and hostile demeanour, Rubia's escort followed.Their manner was unmistakable; they were deserting her.Rubia clasped her hands over her eyes."Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios," she moaned over and over again. Then ina low voice she repeated her own words: "May it be a blight to her. Fromthat moment may evil cling to her, bad luck follow her; may she love andnot be loved; may friends desert her, her sisters shame her, herbrothers disown her----"There was a clatter of horse's hoofs in the courtyard."It is your lover," said her woman coldly from the doorway. "He isriding away from you.""----and those," added Rubia, "whom she has loved abandon her."
IV. BELUNAMeanwhile Felipe, hatless, bloody, was galloping through the night, hispony's head turned toward the hacienda of Martiarena. The RanchoMartiarena lay between his own rancho and the inn where he had metRubia, so that this distance was not great. He reached it in about anhour of vigorous spurring.The place was dark though it was as yet early in the night, and anominous gloom seemed to hang about the house. Felipe, his heart sinking,pounded at the door, and at last aroused the aged superintendent, whowas also a sort of major-domo in the household, and who in Felipe'sboyhood had often ridden him on his knee."Ah, it is you, Arillaga," he said very sadly, as the moonlight struckacross Felipe's face. "I had hoped never to see you again.""Buelna," demanded Felipe. "I have something to say to her, and to thepadron.""Too late, senor.""My God, dead?""As good as dead.""Rafael, tell me all. I have come to set everything straight again. Onmy honour, I have been misjudged. Is Buelna well?""Listen. You know your own heart best, senor. When you left her ourlittle lady was as one half dead; her heart died within her. Ah, sheloved you, Arillaga, far more than you deserved. She drooped swiftly,and one night all but passed away. Then it was that she made a vow thatif God spared her life she would become the bride of the church--wouldforever renounce the world. Well, she recovered, became almost wellagain, but not the same as before. She never will be that. So soon asshe was able to obtain Martiarena's consent she made all thepreparations--signed away all her lands and possessions, and spent thedays and nights in prayer and purifications. The Mother Superior of theConvent of Santa Teresa has been a guest at the hacienda thisfortnight past. Only to-day the party--that is to say, Martiarena, theMother Superior and Buelna--left for Santa Teresa, and at midnight ofthis very night Buelna takes the veil. You know your own heart, SenorFelipe. Go your way.""But not till midnight!" cried Felipe."What? I do not understand.""She will not take the veil till midnight.""No, not till then.""Rafael," cried Felipe, "ask me no questions now. Only believe me. Ialways have and always will love Buelna. I swear it. I can stop thisyet; only once let me reach her in time. Trust me. Ah, for this oncetrust me, you who have known me since I was a lad."He held out his hand. The other for a moment hesitated, then impulsivelyclasped it in his own."Bueno, I trust you then. Yet I warn you not to fool me twice.""Good," returned Felipe. "And now adios. Unless I bring her back withme you'll never see me again.""But, Felipe, lad, where away now?""To Santa Teresa.""You are mad. Do you fancy you can reach it before midnight?" insistedthe major-domo."I will, Rafael; I will.""Then Heaven be with you."But the old fellow's words were lost in a wild clatter of hoofs, asFelipe swung his pony around and drove home the spurs. Through the nightcame back a cry already faint:"Adios, adios.""Adios, Felipe," murmured the old man as he stood bewildered in thedoorway, "and your good angel speed you now."When Felipe began his ride it was already a little after nine. Could hereach Santa Teresa before midnight? The question loomed grim before him,but he answered only with the spur. Pepe was hardy, and, as Felipe wellknew, of indomitable pluck. But what a task now lay before the littleanimal. He might do it, but oh! it was a chance!In a quarter of a mile Pepe had settled to his stride, the dogged, evengallop that Felipe knew so well, and at half-past ten swung through themain street of Piedras Blancas--silent, somnolent, dark."Steady, little Pepe," said Felipe; "steady, little one. Soh, soh.There."The little horse flung back an ear, and Felipe could feel along thelines how he felt for the bit, trying to get a grip of it to ease thestrain on his mouth.The De Profundis bell was sounding from the church tower as Felipegalloped through San Anselmo, the next village, but by the time heraised the lights of Arcata it was black night in very earnest. He sethis teeth. Terra Bella lay eight miles farther ahead, and here from thetown-hall clock that looked down upon the plaza he would be able to knowthe time."Hoopa, Pepe; pronto!" he shouted.The pony responded gallantly. His head was low; his ears in constantmovement, twitched restlessly back and forth, now laid flat on his neck,now cocked to catch the rustle of the wind in the chaparral, thescurrying of a rabbit or ground-owl through the sage.It grew darker, colder, the trade-wind lapsed away. Low in the sky uponthe right a pale, dim belt foretold the rising of the moon. Theincessant galloping of the pony was the only sound.The convent toward which he rode was just outside the few scattered hutsin the valley of the Rio Esparto that by charity had been invested withthe name of Caliente. From Piedras Blancas to Caliente between twilightand midnight! What a riding! Could he do it? Would Pepe last under him?"Steady, little one. Steady, Pepe."Thus he spoke again and again, measuring the miles in his mind,husbanding the little fellow's strength.Lights! Cart lanterns? No, Terra Bella. A great dog charged out at himfrom a dobe, filling the night with outcry; a hayrick loomed by like aship careening through fog; there was a smell of chickens and farmyards.Then a paved street, an open square, a solitary pedestrian dodging justin time from under Pepe's hoofs. All flashed by. The open country again,unbroken darkness again, and solitude of the fields again. Terra Bellapast.But through the confusion Felipe retained one picture, that of themoon-faced clock with hands marking the hour of ten. On again with Pepeleaping from the touch of the spur. On again up the long, shallow slopethat rose for miles to form the divide that overlooked the valley of theEsparto."Hold, there! Madman to ride thus. Mad or drunk. Only desperadoes gallopat night. Halt and speak!"The pony had swerved barely in time, and behind him the Monterey stagelay all but ditched on the roadside, the driver fulminating oaths. ButFelipe gave him but an instant's thought. Dobe huts once more abruptlyranged up on either side the roadway, staggering and dim under thenight. Then a wine shop noisy with carousing peons darted by.Pavements again. A shop-front or two. A pig snoring in the gutter, a doghowling in a yard, a cat lamenting on a rooftop. Then the smell offields again. Then darkness again. Then the solitude of the opencountry. Cadenassa past.But now the country changed. The slope grew steeper; it was the lastlift of land to the divide. The road was sown with stones and scoredwith ruts. Pepe began to blow; once he groaned. Perforce his speeddiminished. The villages were no longer so thickly spread now. The crestof the divide was wild, desolate, forsaken. Felipe again and againsearched the darkness for lights, but the night was black.Then abruptly the moon rose. By that Felipe could guess the time. Hisheart sank. He halted, recinched the saddle, washed the pony's mouthwith brandy from his flask, then mounted and spurred on.Another half-hour went by. He could see that Pepe was in distress; hisspeed was by degrees slacking. Would he last! Would he last? Would theminutes that raced at his side win in that hard race?Houses again. Plastered fronts. All dark and gray. No soul stirring.Sightless windows stared out upon emptiness. The plaza bared itsdesolation to the pitiless moonlight. Only from an unseen window aguitar hummed and tinkled. All vanished. Open country again. Thesolitude of the fields again; the moonlight sleeping on the vast sweepof the ranchos. Calpella past.Felipe rose in his stirrups with a great shout.At Calpella he knew he had crossed the divide. The valley lay beneathhim, and the moon was turning to silver the winding courses of the RioEsparto, now in plain sight.It was between Calpella and Proberta that Pepe stumbled first. Felipepulled him up and ceased to urge him to his topmost speed. But fivehundred yards farther he stumbled again. The spume-flakes he tossed fromthe bit were bloody. His breath came in labouring gasps.But by now Felipe could feel the rising valley-mists; he could hear thepiping of the frogs in the marshes. The ground for miles had slopeddownward. He was not far from the river, not far from Caliente, not farfrom the Convent of Santa Teresa and Buelna.But the way to Caliente was roundabout, distant. If he should follow theroad thither he would lose a long half-hour. By going directly acrossthe country from where he now was, avoiding Proberta, he could save muchdistance and precious time. But in this case Pepe, exhausted, stumbling,weak, would have to swim the river. If he failed to do this Felipe wouldprobably drown. If he succeeded, Caliente and the convent would be closeat hand.For a moment Felipe hesitated, then suddenly made up his mind. Hewheeled Pepe from the road, and calling upon his last remainingstrength, struck off across the country.The sound of the river at last came to his ears."Now, then, Pepe," he cried.For the last time the little horse leaped to the sound of his voice.Still at a gallop, Felipe cut the cinches of the heavy saddle, shook hisfeet clear of the stirrups, and let it fall to the ground; his coat,belt and boots followed. Bareback, with but the headstall and bridleleft upon the pony, he rode at the river.Before he was ready for it Pepe's hoofs splashed on the banks. Then thewater swirled about his fetlocks; then it wet Felipe's bare ankles. Inanother moment Felipe could tell by the pony's motion that his feet hadleft the ground and that he was swimming in the middle of the current.He was carried down the stream more than one hundred yards. Once Pepe'sleg became entangled in a sunken root. Freed from that, his hoofs caughtin grasses and thick weeds. Felipe's knee was cut against a rock; but atlength the pony touched ground. He rose out of the river trembling,gasping and dripping. Felipe put him at the steep bank. He took itbravely, scrambled his way--almost on his knees--to the top, thenstumbled badly and fell prone upon the ground. Felipe twisted from underhim as he fell and regained his feet unhurt. He ran to the brave littlefellow's head."Up, up, my Pepe. Soh, soh."Suddenly he paused, listening. Across the level fields there came to hisears the sound of the bell of the convent of Santa Teresa tolling formidnight.* * * * *Upon the first stroke of midnight the procession of nuns entered thenave of the church. There were some thirty in the procession. The firstranks swung censers; those in the rear carried lighted candles. TheMother Superior and Buelna, the latter wearing a white veil, walkedtogether. The youngest nun followed these two, carrying upon heroutspread palms the black veil.Arrived before the altar the procession divided into halves, fifteenupon the east side of the chancel, fifteen upon the west. The organbegan to drone and murmur, the censers swung and smoked, thecandle-flames flared and attracted the bats that lived among the raftersoverhead. Buelna knelt before the Mother Superior. She was pale and alittle thin from fasting and the seclusion of the cells. But, try as shewould, she could not keep her thoughts upon the solemn office in whichshe was so important a figure. Other days came back to her. A littlegirl gay and free once more, she romped through the hallways and kitchenof the old hacienda Martiarena with her playmate, the young Felipe; ayoung schoolgirl, she rode with him to the Mission to the instruction ofthe padre; a young woman, she danced with him at the fete of AllSaints at Monterey. Why had it not been possible that her romance shouldrun its appointed course to a happy end? That last time she had seen himhow strangely he had deported himself. Untrue to her! Felipe! HerFelipe; her more than brother! How vividly she recalled the day. Theywere returning from the Mission, where she had prayed for his safe andspeedy return. Long before she had seen him she heard the gallop of ahorse's hoofs around the turn of the road. Yes, she remembered that--thegallop of a horse. Ah! how he rode--how vivid it was in her fancy.Almost she heard the rhythmic beat of the hoofs. They came nearer,nearer. Fast, furiously fast hoof-beats. How swift he rode. Gallop,gallop--nearer, on they came. They were close by. They swept swiftlynearer, nearer. What--what was this? No fancy. Nearer, nearer. No fancythis. Nearer, nearer. These--ah, Mother of God--are real hoof-beats.They are coming; they are at hand; they are at the door of the church;they are here!She sprang up, facing around. The ceremony was interrupted. Thefrightened nuns were gathering about the Mother Superior. The organceased, and in the stillness that followed all could hear that furiousgallop. On it came, up the hill, into the courtyard. Then a shout,hurried footsteps, the door swung in, and Felipe Arillaga, ragged,dripping, half fainting, hatless and stained with mud, sprang towardBuelna. Forgetting all else, she ran to meet him, and, clasped in eachother's arms, they kissed one another upon the lips again and again.The bells of Santa Teresa that Felipe had heard that night on the blanksof the Esparto rang for a wedding the next day.Two days after they tolled as passing bells. A beautiful woman had beenfound drowned in a river not far from the house of Lopez Catala, on thehigh road to Monterey.
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