“Among friends or enemies, the one haven of safety always is the holy sanctuary.”

I felt the strong need for a haven from myself as I crossed the stream and followed the trail up to the doorway of San Miguel.

The shadows were growing long, few sounds broke the stillness of the hour, and the spirit of peace brooded in the soft light and sweet air.  I had almost reached the church when I stopped suddenly, stunned by what I saw.  Two people were strolling up the narrow, crooked street that wanders eastward beside the building—­a tall, slender young man in white linen clothes and a girl in a soft creamy gown, with a crimson scarf draped about her shoulders.  They were both bareheaded, and the man’s heavy black hair and curling black mustache, and the girl’s coronal of golden braids and the profile of her fair face left no doubt about the two.  It was Marcos Ramero and Eloise St. Vrain.  They were talking earnestly; and in a very lover-like manner the young man bent down to catch his companion’s words.

Something seemed to snap asunder in my brain, and from that moment I knew myself; knew how futile is the belief that miles of prairie trail and strength of busy days can ever cast down and break an idol of the heart.

In a minute they had passed a turn in the street, and there was only sandy earth and dust-colored walls and a yellow glare above them, where a moment ago had been a shimmer of sunset’s gold.

“The one haven of safety always is the holy sanctuary.”

Father Josef’s words sounded in my ears, and the face of old San Miguel seemed to wear a welcoming smile.  I stepped into the deep doorway and stood there, aimless and unthinking, looking out toward where the Jemez Mountains were outlined against the southwest horizon.  Presently I caught the sound of feet, and Marcos Ramero strode out of the narrow street and followed the trail into the heart of the city.

I stared after him, noting the graceful carriage, the well-fitting clothes, and the proud set of the handsome head.  There was no doubt about him.  Did he hold the heart of the golden-haired girl who had walked into my life to stay?  As he passed out of my sight Eloise St. Vrain came swiftly around the corner of the street to the church door, and stopped before me in wide-eyed amazement.  Eloise, with her clinging creamy draperies, and the vivid red of her silken scarf, and her glorious hair.

“Oh, Gail Clarenden, is it really you?” she cried, stretching out both hands toward me with a glad light in her eyes.

“Yes, Little Lees, it is I.”

I took both of her hands in mine.  They were soft and white, and mine were brown and horny, but their touch sent a thrill of joy through me.  She clung tightly to my hands for an instant.  Then a deeper pink swept her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes and stepped back.

“They told me you were—­lost—­on the way; that some Kiowas had killed you.”