When Little Blue Flower left me sitting beside Fort Marcy’s wall my mind went back in swift review over the flight of days since Beverly Clarenden and I had come from Cincinnati.  I recalled the first meeting of Eloise with my cousin.  How easily they had renewed acquaintance.  I had been surprised and embarrassed and awkward when I found her and Little Blue Flower down by the Flat Rock below St. Ann’s, in the Moon of the Peach Blossom.  I remembered how I had monopolized all of her time in the days that followed, leaving good-natured Bev to look after the little Indian girl who never really seemed like an Indian to him.  And keen-piercing as an arrow came now the memory of that midnight hour when I had seen the two in the little side porch of the Clarenden home, and again I heard the sorrowful words: 

“Oh, Beverly, it breaks my heart.”

Eloise had just seen Beverly kiss Little Blue Flower in the shadows of the porch.  And all the while, good-hearted, generous boy that he was, he had never tried to push his suit with her, had made her love him more, no doubt, by letting me have full command of all of her time, while he forgot himself in showing courtesy to the Indian girl, because Bev was first of all a gentleman.  I thought of that dear hour in the church of San Miguel.  Of course, Eloise was glad to find me there—­poor, hunted, frightened child!  She would have been as glad, no doubt, to have found big Bill Banney or Rex Krane, and I had thought her eyes held something just for me that night.  She had not seen Beverly at the chapel beside the San Christobal River, and to me she had not given even a parting glance when she went away.  If she had cared for me at all she would not have left me so.  And I had climbed the tortuous trail with her and stood beside her in the zone of sanctuary safety that Father Josef had thrown about us two.

These things were clear enough to me, but when I tried to think again of all that Little Blue Flower had said an hour ago my mind went numb: 

“Her mother knew her, but only as the little Eloise long lost and never missed till now.  The mother, too, was very beautiful, and young in face, and child-like in her helplessness.  The lonely ranch-house, old, and strong as a fort, girt round by tall canon walls, nestled in a grassy open place; and not a comfort had been denied the woman there.  For Gloria Ramero, Ferdinand’s wife, had governed that.  And Eloise had entered there to stay.  This much was clear enough.  But that which followed seemed to twist and writhe about in my mind with only one thing sure—­Eloise loved Beverly, would always love him.  And he could not love any one else.  He could be kind to any girl, but he would not be happy.  Some day when he was older—­a real man—­then he would long for the girl of his heart and his own choice, and he would find her and love her, too, and she would love him and those who stood between them they both would hate.  And Eloise loved Beverly.  She could not send Gail any words herself, but he would understand.”