At these words the crouching figure sprang up and Ferdinand Ramero, his steel-blue eyes blazing, came forward with cat-like softness.  But the sturdy little man before the priest stood, hat in hand, undisturbed by any presence there.

“Father Josef,” the tall man began, in a voice of menace, “you will not protect this American here.  I have confessed to you and you know that this man is my enemy.  He comes, a traitor to his own country and a spy to ours.  He has risked the lives of three children by bringing them across the plains.  He comes alone where large wagon-trains dare not venture.  He could not go back to the States now.  And lastly, good Father, he has no right to the child that he claims is here.”

“To the child that is here, asleep beside our sacred altar,” Father Josef said, sternly.

Ferdinand Ramero turned upon the priest fiercely.

“Even the Church might go too far,” he muttered, threateningly.

“It might, but it never has,” the holy man agreed.  Then turning to Esmond Clarenden, he continued:  “You must see that these charges do not stand against you.  Our Holy Church offers no protection, outside of these four walls, to a traitor or a spy or even an unpatriotic speculator seeking to profit by the needs of war.  Nor could it sanction giving the guardianship of a child to one who daringly imperils his own life or the lives of children, nor can it sanction any rights of guardianship unless due cause be given for granting them.”

Ferdinand Ramero smiled as the priest concluded.  He was a handsome man, with the sort of compelling magnetism that gives controlling power to its possessor.  But because I knew my uncle so well in after years, I can picture Esmond Clarenden as he stood that night before the young priest in the little mud-walled church of Agua Fria.  And I can picture the tall, threatening man in the shadows beside him.  But never have I held an image of him showing a sign of fear.

“Father Josef, I am willing to make any explanation to you.  As for this man whom you call Ramero here—­up in the States he bears another name and I finished with him there six years ago—­I have no time nor breath to waste on him.  Are these your demands?” my uncle asked.

“They are,” Father Josef replied.

“Do I take away the little girl, Eloise, unmolested, if you are satisfied?” Esmond Clarenden demanded, first making sure of his bargain, like the merchant he was.

Ferdinand Ramero stiffened insolently at these words, and looked threateningly at Father Josef.

“You do,” the holy man replied, something of the flashing light in his eyes alone revealing what sort of a soldier the State had lost when this man took on churchly orders.