That was a solemn hour in the shadow of the rock down in that yellow valley, but beautiful in its forgiving triumph.  We who had gathered in the dimly lighted chapel had an hour more solemn for that it was made up of such dramatic minutes as change the trend of life-trails for all the years to come.

The chapel was very old.  They tell me that only a broken portion of the circular wall about the altar stands there to-day, a lonely monument to some holy padre’s faith and courage and sacrifice in the forgotten years when, in far Hesperia, men dreamed of a Quivera and found only a Calvary.

It may be that I, Gail Clarenden, was also changed as I listened to the deliberations of that day; that something of youth gave place for the stronger manhood that should stay me through the years that came after.

Eloise sat where I could see her face.  The pink bloom had come back to it, and the golden hair, disordered by our wild ride and rough climb among the pictured rocks of the cliff, curled carelessly on her white brow and rippled about her shapely head.  I used to wonder what setting fitted her beauty best—­why wonder that about any beautiful woman?—­but the gracious loveliness of this woman was never more appealing to me than in the soft light and sacred atmosphere of the church.

Father Josef’s first thought was for her, but he brought water and coarse linen towels, so that, refreshed and clean-faced, we came in to his presence.

“Eloise,” his voice was deep and sweet, “so long as you were a child I tried to protect and direct you.  Now that you are a woman, you must still be protected, but you must live your own life and choose for yourself.  You must meet sorrow and not be crushed by it.  You must take up your cross and bear it.  It is for this that I have called you back to New Mexico at this time.  But remember, my daughter, that life is not given to us for defeat, but for victory; not for tears, but for smiles; not for idle cringing safety, but for brave and joyous struggle.”

I thought of Dick Verra, the college man, whose own young years were full of hope and ambition, whose love for a woman had brought him to the priesthood, but as I caught the rich tones of Father Josef’s voice, somehow, to me, he stood for success, not failure.

Eloise bowed her head and listened.

“You must no longer be threatened with the loss of your own heritage, nor coerced into a marriage for which the Church has been offered a bribe to help to accomplish.  Blood money purifies no altars nor extends the limits of the Kingdom of the Christ.  Your property is your own to use for the holy purposes of a goodly life wherever your days may lead you; and whatever the civil law may grant of power to control it for you, you shall no longer be harassed or annoyed.  The Church demands that it shall henceforth be yours.”

Father Josef’s dark eyes were full of fire as he turned to Ferdinand Ramero.