On the far edge of the ocean the rising diadem of the sun sent great bubbles of colour up through a low bank of pale green cloud to the gray night sky and the sulky stars.  And, under the shadow of the cacti and palms, in rapt mute worship, knelt the men and women the priest had come to save, their faces and clasped hands uplifted to the waking sun.

Father Carillo awoke his Indians summarily.

“Gather a dozen large stones and build an altar—­quick!” he commanded.

The sleepy Indians stumbled to their feet, obeyed orders, and in a few moments a rude altar was erected.  The priest propped the cross on the apex, and, kneeling with his Indians, slowly chanted a mass.  The savages gathered about curiously; then, impressed by the solemnity of the priest’s voice and manner, sank to their knees once more, although directing to the sun an occasional glance of anxiety.  When the priest rose, he gave them to understand that he was deeply gratified by their response to the religion of civilization, and pointed to the sun, now full-orbed, amiably swimming in a jewelled mist.  Again they prostrated themselves, first to him, then to their deity, and he knew that the conquest was begun.

After breakfast they were ready to follow him.  They had cast their feathered robes into a heap, and wore the blankets, one and all.  Still Dorthe had not appeared.  The chief sent a man in search of her, and when, after some delay, she entered his presence, commanded her to make herself ready to go with the tribe.  For a time she protested angrily.  But when she found that she must go or remain alone, she reluctantly joined the forming procession, although refusing to doff her bird garment, and keeping well in the rear that she might not again look upon that terrible presence in white and gold, that face with its strange pallor and piercing eyes.  Father Carillo, who was very much bored, would have been glad to talk to her, but recognized that he must keep his distance if he wished to include her among his trophies.

The natives knew of a shorter trail to the harbour, and one of them led the way, Father Carillo urging his footsteps, for the green cloud of dawn was now high and black and full.  A swift wind was rustling the tree-tops and tossing the ocean white.  As they skirted the plain of the dead, the priest saw a strange sight.  The wind had become a gale.  It caught up great armfuls of sand from the low dunes, and hurled them upon the skeletons, covering them from sight.  Sometimes a gust would snatch the blanket from one to bury another more deeply; and for a moment the old bones would gleam again, to be enveloped in the on-rushing pillar of whirling sand.  Through the storm leaped the wild dogs, yelping dismally.