Padre Arroyo descended the stair and awaited them at its foot.  Separating them, and taking each by the hand, he pushed Andreo ahead and dragged Pilar down the narrow passage.  At its end he took a great bunch of keys from his pocket, and raising both hands commanded them to kneel.  He said a long prayer in a loud monotonous voice which echoed and reechoed down the dark hall and made Pilar shriek with terror.  Then he fairly hurled the marriage ceremony at them, and made the couple repeat after him the responses.  When it was over, “Arise,” he said.

The poor things stumbled to their feet, and Andreo caught Pilar in a last embrace.

“Now bear your incarceration with fortitude, my children; and if you do not beat the air with your groans, I will let you out in a week.  Do not hate your old father, for love alone makes him severe, but pray, pray, pray.”

And then he locked them both in the same cell.

THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL

I

The Senor Capitan Don Luis de la Torre walked impatiently up and down before the grist-mill wherein were quartered the soldiers sent by Mexico to protect the building of the Mission of San Gabriel.  The Indian workmen were slugs; California, a vast region inhabited only by savages and a few priests, offered slender attractions to a young officer craving the gay pleasures of his capital and the presence of the woman he was to marry.  For months he had watched the mission church mount slowly from foundation to towers, then spread into pillared corridors and rooms for the clergy.  He could have mapped in his mind every acre of the wide beautiful valley girt by mountains snowed on their crest.  He had thought it all very lovely at first:  the yellow atmosphere, the soft abiding warmth, the blue reflecting lake; but the green on mountain and flat had waxed to gold, then waned to tan and brown, and he was tired.  Not even a hostile Indian had come to be killed.

He was very good-looking, this tall young Spaniard, with his impatient eyes and haughty intelligent face, and it is possible that the lady in Mexico had added to his burden by doleful prayers to return.  He took a letter from his pocket, read it half through, then walked rapidly over to the mission, seeking interest in the work of the Indians.  Under the keen merciless supervision of the padres,—­the cleverest body of men who ever set foot in America,—­they were mixing and laying the adobes, making nails and tiles, hewing aqueducts, fashioning great stone fonts and fountains.  De la Torre speculated, after his habit, upon the future of a country so beautiful and so fertile, which a dozen priests had made their own.  Would these Indians, the poorest apologies for human beings he had ever seen, the laziest and the dirtiest, be Christianized and terrified into worthy citizens of this fair land?  Could the clear white flame that burned in the brains of the padres strike fire in their neophytes’ narrow skulls, create a soul in those grovelling bodies?  He dismissed the question.