He turned and strode out of the church and, mounting his horse, rode like a madman up the yellow valley of the San Christobal.  In after years I could find no term to so well describe that last act as the words of Beverly Clarenden, who came to the chapel just in time to hear Ferdinand Ramero’s closing declaration, and to see his black scowl and scornful air, as, in a royal madness, he defied the power of man and denounced the all-pitying love that is big enough for the most sinful.

“It was Paradise lost,” Beverly declared, “and Satan falling clear to hell before the Archangel’s flaming sword.  Only he went east and the real Satan dropped down to his place.  But they will meet up somewhere, Ramero and the real one, and not be able to tell each other apart.”

And Jondo.  My boyhood idol, brave, gentle, unselfish, able everywhere!  Jondo, who had kept my toddling feet from stumbling, who had taught me to ride and swim and shoot, who had made me wise in plains lore, and manly and clean among the rough and vulgar things of the Missouri frontier.  Jondo, whose big, cool hand had touched my feverish face, whose deep blue eyes had looked love into my eyes when I lay dying on Pawnee Rock!  A man without a name!  A murderer who had by a trick escaped the law, and must walk evermore unknown among his fellow-men!  Something went out of my life as I looked at him.  The boy in me was burned and seared away, and only the man-to-be, was left.

He offered no word of defense from the accusation against him, nor made a plea of innocence, but sat looking straight at Father Josef, who looked at him as if expecting nothing.  And as they gazed into each other’s eyes, a something strong and beautiful swept the face of each.  I could not understand it, and I was young.  My lifetime hero had turned to nothingness before my eyes.  The world was full of evil.  I hated it and all that in it was, my trusting, foolish, short-sighted self most of all.

But Eloise—­the heart of woman is past understanding—­Eloise turned to the man beside her and, putting both arms around his neck, she pressed one fair cheek against his brown bearded one, and kissed him gently on the forehead.  Then turning to Father Josef, no longer the dependent, clinging maiden, but the loving woman, strong and sure of will, she said: 

“I must go to my mother.  So long as she lives I will never leave her again.”

She did not even look at me, nor speak a word of farewell, as if I were the murderer instead of that man, Jondo, whom she had kissed.

I saw her ride away, with Little Blue Flower beside her.  I saw the green mesa, the red cliffs above the growing things, the glitter of the San Christobal water on yellow sands, the level plain where the narrow white trail crept far away toward Gloria Narveo’s lonely ranch-house, strong as a fort built a hundred years ago, in a little canon of the valley.  I saw a young, graceful figure on horseback, and the glint of sunlight on golden hair.  But the rider did not turn her head and I could not get one glance of those beautiful dark eyes.  A great mass of rock hid the line of the trail, and the two, Eloise and Little Blue Flower, rounded the angle and rode on out of my sight.